


Forgetting

by Timeless A-Peel (timelessapeel)



Category: New Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelessapeel/pseuds/Timeless%20A-Peel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Half past ten marks the start of one very long, very strange day. Who's behind it? It's up to Steed, Gambit, and Purdey to puzzle it out...if that is who they are...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: As I have yet to master the art of time-travel, I have not been able to acquire the rights to The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Purdey or Gambit. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The call came at half past ten, while Purdey was preparing to go out for the day. She hadn't had a proper day off in ages, and when the Ministry had informed Steed that there was nothing pressing to be attended to, the senior agent had told his two young charges to forgo visiting the office and spend the day recharging. Purdey was thinking along the lines of a little shopping, followed by light lunch, and then perhaps a spur-of-the-moment evening at the ballet. She meant to cram as much in as possible. There was no telling when she would have another of such days again.

She didn't know how Gambit planned to spend his reprieve, and she wasn't entirely certain that was a bad thing. Certain possibilities raised her hackles, and she didn't need any hackle-raising today. Instead, she was looking forward to relaxation, rejuvenation. She put the final touches on her make-up and admired the result. Yes, if everything went according to plan, today would be a good day.

The phone rang. Purdey's head whipped toward her bedside table, and she glared at the instrument. She had half a mind not to answer. If it was the Ministry, her plans were scuppered, and she had no excuse for not stepping in to save Queen and Country. But if she pretended she had already left, that she had gone out for the day… Purdey sighed and shook her head, setting down the eyebrow pencil. No, that wouldn't work. Her curiousity and sense of duty would get the best of her throughout the day, and if something really terrible had happened, well, she wanted to know now. She made her way over to the phone, allowed herself one last indulgent sigh before lifting the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Mike Gambit's flat."

Purdey blinked at the strange greeting. "I beg your pardon?"

"Go there immediately."

Purdey frowned. "Who is this?" she demanded, but the line had gone dead. She scowled at the receiver in puzzlement, then hung up. The voice had been vaguely familiar, male, but she couldn't come up with any matches at the moment. Then the full implications of the caller's words sunk in. Purdey felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. Gambit's flat. Gambit. Mike…

Purdey started to run, thrusting the beaded curtains aside, plans forgotten as a newfound urgency overtook her. Gambit could be in trouble. Pausing only to scoop up her keys, she dashed for the door, well aware that she was, in all likelihood, racing into a trap. She didn't care. If Gambit needed help, she would give it. Anything else was unthinkable.

She drove like a madwoman to his block, mind turning over the possibilities. Had Gambit been captured? Was that it? A ransom demand? Or was it a joke? Someone playing a prank? Purdey doubted it. People at the Ministry knew better than to joke about life or death situations. She arrived at the building, found it intact, ruling out a major disaster like a fire. As she alighted from her own vehicle, she spotted a familiar bowler-hatted figure across the street, climbing from a green Jaguar.

"Steed!"

He turned in surprise at the girl dashing across the street toward him. "Purdey! What are you-?"

"I had a call," Purdey explained, coming to a stop beside him. She met his gaze. "Don't tell me you…?"

"Male. Half an hour ago. Told me to come to Gambit's immediately," Steed confirmed, glancing up toward Mike's row of windows. "I've no idea what it means, either. Other than—"

"Trap," Purdey finished. "I didn't think to bring a gun." She cursed her thoughtlessness.

"Let's hope we don't need one," Steed murmured, striding for the door.

They kept their wits about them as they rode the lift, eyes open for any sign of surveillance or a set-up. They arrived at Gambit's floor without incident, made their way down the hall to his door. A quick inspection revealed that it hadn't been tampered with, no sign of forced entry or a trap. Steed, forgoing the Gambit method of kicking his way in, produced his spare key and unlocked the door, before prodding it open with his brolly. Purdey stood well back, eyes on the ever-growing opening. Her blue eyes widened in alarm at what she saw.

"Mike!" The scream tore her throat.

Gambit was sprawled on the floor, lying on his back with his limbs loosely spread over the carpet. He was dressed in suit and tie, and looked as though he was in the process of going out. He wasn't moving.

Purdey pushed past Steed, not bothering to check for a waiting attacker. Steed, concern etched on his features, did the job for her, scanning the room while Purdey dropped to her knees beside the prone form. "Call an ambulance!" she ordered, even as she bent over her fallen friend. Gambit's eyes were open, staring unseeingly at the ceiling, face expressionless. There was no fear, no surprise, no sign of attack. No bruises, no blood. Just a body. And a deathly stare.

"Mike," Purdey whimpered, pressing a finger to his neck, starting at how cool the skin was. She searched in vain for a pulse, found none, transferred her attention to his wrist. Still nothing. Stretching her hand beneath his nose confirmed he wasn't breathing, either. "I can't find a pulse!" she told Steed, who was on the phone. She turned back to Gambit. "Mike Gambit, don't you dare die on me! Don't you dare!" She put her hands on his chest, one over another, and pressed down, just as she'd been taught in first-aid. She counted carefully, before bending to press her mouth to his, desperately trying to inflate his lungs. Then again, press, count, breathe. Repeat. Over and over. She was vaguely aware of Steed coming to kneel beside her, but she was too busy to pay him any heed. All of her attention was on Mike. Her gestures were frantic, desperate, and, when Steed caught hold of Gambit's wrist himself, he realized they were futile as well. He watched Purdey sadly, still counting faithfully, still pausing to give him the kiss of life, when somewhere deep down, he knew she was well-aware there was nothing to be done. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Purdey…"

"No, I'm not finished! I'm not! He'll come round!" Purdey said desperately. "Won't you, Mike? You're too damn stubborn to die here, like this."

"Purdey," Steed repeated. "There's nothing you can do. He's gone."


	2. Revival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As I have yet to master the art of time-travel, I have not been able to acquire the rights to The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Purdey or Gambit. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
>  
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Purdey was bent over Gambit's head again, but it was clear that she'd given up trying to bring him back. Steed could hear the first sobs, could see how her frame was shaking. "Mike…" she whispered again, and lay a hand on his cheek and let the other one trail into his hair. "Why?" She wished his eyes weren't so empty, so blue and cold as they gazed up and past her to some unknown realm. She transferred her attention to his mouth, tried one last, futile breath that turned into a kiss goodbye. Then Steed's hands were on her shoulders, drawing her gently away. She let her hands slide trail down and over his chest, hoping, praying for a miraculous heartbeat, but there was none. Her face twisted in anger.

"Dammit, Mike!" she swore, bringing a fist down to pound uselessly at his chest. "Why him? Why did it have to be him?" She scrubbed angrily at the tears on her face, while Steed put an arm around her shoulders and made soothing noises. Purdey glanced at him, at the tightness of the features, and the pale hue of his skin. Gambit was meant to be Steed's heir, his protégé, the man who would carry on in his stead when his luck or his body gave out. In some ways, he'd been the son Steed would never have. And here he was, an empty shell, gone before his time, without a single friend to see him on his way.

"It's not right," he managed, unsure of what else to say.

"Of course it isn't!" Purdey howled, squirming from his grasp. "Look at him, Steed. Look at that boy. He was young, and vital, and…good." She reached out to brush the dark waves from his forehead. "Wasn't he?'

"Yes," Steed agreed. "A good man. And a good friend."

Purdey shook her head. "Who would do this?"

Steed looked at her, really looked for the first time since they'd found the body. "You don't think it was…natural?"

Purdey actually snorted through her tears. "Is it ever in our business?" She reached out and straightened Gambit's tie. "Poor Mike's made his share of enemies this past year."

"And yet he hasn't been moved," Steed observed. It was easier to treat Gambit like another victim than a dead friend. It was the only way he knew how to cope just now. He'd never lost one of his partners to the job, and he didn't know how he'd sweep this one under the carpet with all the lost old friends. "We'd see some sign on the carpet if he were dragged. No sign of a struggle in the flat. No injuries." He managed to bring his eyes up to Gambit's slack features, shuddered. "And he doesn't look distressed." He bit his lip. "I wish I could say the same."

Purdey, on the other hand, was transfixed, fresh tears racing down her face. "I don't believe it," she whispered. "Mike had his share of late nights and he drank the same as you and me. You're not going to tell me he keeled over from natural causes." She almost snarled it. Steed knew she needed a reason, someone to blame. "And anyway, what about those calls? Someone knew he was lying here like this." She was seething now, teeth bared like a vicious animal. "Someone knew, and they wanted us to see it." She looked at Gambit's dead eyes again. "Poison. It must have been poison. Slow-acting. And I'll bet the sick bastard watched him go."

Steed felt alarm wash over him as he remembered Purdey's unsuccessful attempts at resuscitation. "Poison…? Purdey, your mouth!" He grabbed her urgently and spun her to face him, eyes questing over her face. "Did you taste anything?"

Purdey blanched, then licked her own lips. "I…don't think so," she quavered. "Just…just Mike." Her eyes darted around the flat. "And there's no glass. If he was drinking, he'd have dropped it, or have it close at hand. There's nothing. Like I said, slow-acting." She swallowed hard. "And even if there were…" Her expression told him the rest. She was past caring by this point, too upset and discombobulated to think straight. If this were the price to pay for trying to bring him back, she would gladly pay it.

"Purdey…" Steed shook his head, just a tiny bit. "That's not going to bring him back."

"Don't believe in he after-life?" she joked, and her half-smile was tinged with madness. "Or second chances? You ought to. Mike gave us enough of them. For all the good it did him."

"Purdey…" Survivor's guilt was ugly, and Steed didn't want to see Purdey down that path, but the sheer force of emotion was bubbling over, threatening to overcome them both.

"How many times has he saved our skins? How many? And we never did deign to give him a proper thank you, did we? Really? That was his job, wasn't it? Do the legwork and play second fiddle to you, and take it with good humour?"

"Purdey…"

"And I didn't make it any better, did I? Didn't matter how many last-minute resues he put in, I'd be back to stringing him along by the next day." She laughed bitterly. "Good old Mike. Always took one for the team. And now look." She thrust a hand at the body.

"He knew," Steed assured. "He knew how much he meant. To both of us."

"Did he?" Purdey's voice dripped with self-recrimination. "Did we ever tell him? Or did we assume he did? Did he know how much I-?" She closed her mouth, set her jaw abruptly. "Between the two of us, probably not."

"Purdey," Steed said softly, finally holding her attention. "You can't play these games. All we can do is find out who's done this, and make certain that Gambit doesn't die in vain."

She seemed ready to protest, but Steed's expression made her nod curtly instead. "We don't have a choice, do we?"

"No."

He let her go, and she seemed to fold into herself, too emotionally drained to argue. "But we look after him first. We make sure he gets to the hospital, and everything goes as it should. He deserves to be looked after by someone who cares, not treated like another body on the slab."

Steed nodded. "We'll keep him safe," he promised. There was a knock at the door, urgent. "That will be the paramedics." He stood and made for the door, turned at Purdey's shriek.

"Wait!"

"What?"

She reached up and gently closed Gambit's eyes, then folded his arms over his chest. "Now he's ready."

There were two men with a stretcher, and one very efficient nurse. They quickly confirmed the verdict, loaded Gambit up. For a moment, with his eyes closed, he looked asleep, or merely unconscious, and Purdey prayed that she'd hallucinated the last few minutes. Then the sheet was drawn over the pallid features, and she started to tremble visibly. This was real. She'd thought after Terry Walton that she knew exactly how she'd react if Gambit ever met his end. But there'd been no body then, and at least 'Terry' had still been alive, and a living Gambit, even a fake one, kept it from hitting home quite the way a staring corpse did. She followed the stretcher in a daze, only casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make certain Steed was following. It was a somber trek, a rehearsal for the inevitable funeral procession. She found herself folding her hands and bowing her head automatically, mind darting to the occasion. Who would call Gambit's family? Did he even have anyone that needed to be called? She didn't know much about Mike's family, hadn't bothered to ask. Steed had heard about an aunt once, she remembered. Obviously he had parents, but whether they were dead, or simply estranged, was a mystery. Siblings? She felt guiltier now. She was always prattling on about her uncle or mother or step-father, and she'd never thought to ask him about who he saw at Christmas. There was still so much she didn't know. And now she never would.

They were outside now, and Gambit was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. Steed was speaking to the nurse. "Do you mind if we ride along?" he queried. "We'd like another moment alone with him before…"

The nurse nodded. "Of course," she allowed, and Purdey clambered in with Steed in tow. The doors were closed behind them, and Purdey took a seat next to seat on the built-in bench with Steed. Gambit was a shrouded figure across the way. Purdey couldn't help but marvel at how recognizable his silhouette was. She sighed and propped her chin in her hands.

"Well, I do believe the little woman cares," she murmured, and Steed, despite the way Gambit was drawing his gaze, frowned and turned to look at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

Purdey half-smiled. "Just a line from one of the Thin Man films. We had a running joke about it, Mike and I. He'd tease me about it when I'd worry, and I'd say 'I don't care! It's just that I'm used to you, that's all.'" She sighed. "I wonder if he ever took any of it to heart, or just thought I was channelling Nora Charles. Went on so long I can't even remember which film it was. The second, I think."

"No, it was the first one."

Purdey frowned and shook her head. "No, I'm very sure—" She froze. It hadn't been Steed's voice that had obliged her with an answer.

"Steed," she said, very slowly, eyeing the shroud. "I think I'm going mad. I thought I heard…"

"So did I," Steed said faintly, eyes riveted on the figure. They exchanged disturbed glances, faces matching in pallour. "But it couldn't…"

"What couldn't?" asked the disembodied voice. Or was it embodied? "Why's everything gone quiet? And who put this sheet over my head? Bloke could suffocate."

Purdey swallowed hard. The sheet was most definitely moving over the mouth area, as though he was...talking. "We thought that was the least of your problems," she tremoured.

"Oh, that's nice," the voice said sarcastically. Purdey and Steed watched, transfixed, as one arm lifted up and tugged the sheet down. A head of dark curls appeared, and took a deep breath. "That's better." The lips moved. The eyes moved. And the face scrunched up in disgust as he regarded the ambulance ceiling.


	3. My Not So Late Friend and Partner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still don't own The New Avengers. Still don't own Steed, Gambit, or Purdey. Until this trend reverses itself, they still belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.  
> \----------------------------------------

"Bloody hell, I'm going to the hospital again, aren't I? What happened this time?" Gambit turned to look their way, but both Purdey and Steed were pressed against the far wall of the ambulance, regarding him in wide-eyed horror. He treated them with an annoyed scowl. "Fine, don't tell me." He proceeded to sit up, letting the sheet slide down his chest, and stretched like a cat preparing to prowl. This caused him some distress, and he brought a hand up to his chest. "Never mind. I've figured it out. Someone's pounded the life out of me again. Funny. Don't remember getting into a punch-up." He rubbed his head. "Don't feel like I've got a concussion, either." He looked at his colleagues again. "You're not looking too good yourselves, like you've seen a ghost. Look like you could use a drink."

"Erk," was all Purdey could say.

Gambit frowned again, this time in concern. "You really are pale, Purdey-girl. Did a doctor check you out?" He swung his legs over the edge of the stretcher, tossed the sheet aside impatiently. "Here, I'll have a look. Did you get knocked on the head?"

"No pulse," Purdey was muttering under her breath, in short, staccato bursts. "No pulse. No heartbeat. Not breathing. Cold." She was nearly catatonic with shock, desperately trying to reconcile what she had felt in the flat with what she was seeing now.

Gambit stood, a little stiff, but one crack of the neck and he seemed good to go. He took a step toward her, closing the gap between them, hand outstretched to touch her cheek. She found herself flinching away instinctively, uncertain of how she'd hold together should his flesh be as cold as she remembered.

Gambit started at the unexpected movement. He couldn't understand why his colleagues looked more peaked now that he was up and around. Surely they should be glad to know he was all right? But Purdey's lips were parted and gulping in air, and all the colour had drained from her face. He knew something was deeply wrong, especially with Steed gaping the way he was. It was hard to flap Steed, but the man was definitely shaken and stirred, and no more of a help in providing answers than the girl. He turned his attentions back to Purdey, found himself bending to look her in the eye. She was actually trembling, palms pressed against the wall, chest heaving. "Purdey…" he said softly. "What's wrong? What happened?" Concern overrode all else, and he tipped her chin up with one hand so he could check her pupils for anything irregular. She gasped, and her hand flew up to latch onto his wrist.

Purdey herself was frozen with fear, unable to pull away from Gambit's touch a second time. On the one hand, if the flesh was warm, she'd know he was back, but if it weren't... She shuddered internally. But then his fingers were tilting up her chin, his thumb brushing against her jaw. And he was warm. And the eyes that searched her own were alive with concern, not dead and bleak at all. Encouraged, she curled her fingers around his wrist, seeking out a pulse. She found one, racing along amid the wonderful warmth. "Mike?" she whispered, guiding her hand down his arm, squeezing as she went to assure herself that he was real. "Mike?" she repeated more urgently. She pushed his jacket aside, pressed a hand to his chest, felt the sure and steady beat of a heart. "His heart," she exclaimed, looking to Steed. "I can feel his heart!"

Gambit was looking from one to another in open bemusement. "I'd hope so," he said flatly. "Purdey, really, are you feeling all right? Steed, are you sure she's not the one who needs the ambulance?"

Purdey ignored him. "It's impossible," she breathed, putting a hand on either cheek and pressing her fingertips into his temples. "Mike Gambit, I knew you were made of stern stuff, but this…" She shook her head in disbelief. "Steed, tell him!"

"What?" Gambit covered her hands with his. "Look, I'm happy for the attention, but what's this all about?"

"Mike Gambit," Purdey choked. "You were stone dead not ten minutes ago."

Gambit chuckled, then stopped when Purdey started shaking. "Hey, Purdey-girl, don't start that again." He took her hands in his, massaged the stiff fingers. "You're not serious?"

"Dead serious," Steed confirmed, without the slightest hint of irony.

Gambit half-smiled. "Come on. If I were dead, I think I would have been the first to notice. I've been dead to the world lots of times, sure, but are you sure you're not over-dramatising just a bit?"

"She's not," Steed told him. "Gambit, we found you in your flat. You were lying on the floor. There was no pulse, no heartrate, and no respiration."

"And you were cold," Purdey hissed. "So cold." She was clutching his hand with a strength he didn't know she possessed. They weren't joking. Gambit felt his stomach churn.

"You're…you're sure?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, you both checked?"

"Several times. Purdey and I confirmed it, and then the paramedics did the same. Purdey tried to resuscitate you, and you didn't respond."

"Mouth-to-mouth?" Gambit grinned a little in spite of himself. "Purdey, I didn't know you cared."

"I'm the one who did your chest in, too," she revealed, with the tiniest ghost of a smile. "So don't think it came for free."

"It never does," Gambit quipped, brushing a lock blonde hair from her eyes. "Okay?"

She took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. "Okay," she agreed, then put her arms around him and hugged tight. "Don't you dare ever do that to me again, do you understand?"

Gambit looked very pleased with this turn of events, slipped his arms around her waist. "I'll have to die more often." Purdey made a choking noise, and he sobered abruptly. "Sorry. Too soon, eh?"

"As happy as I am that you've returned to the land of the living," Steed broke in. "The fact remains that you were dead. Do you know how you came to be lying in your flat?"

Gambit broke away from Purdey, shook his head. "Sorry. Last thing I remember is feeling a little woozy in the living room. Next thing I know I'm under the sheet listening to Purdey quote old movies." He cast a glance back at the stretcher. "You really had me all covered up and ready for the morgue, didn't you?"

"Yes," Steed murmured. "There wasn't much in the way of options at the time."

"No…no, I guess not," Gambit murmured, looking grim. He shook whatever dark thoughts he had away, and straightened up. "We can suss it later. Someone ought to tell these blokes to break the date with the coroner." He made his way to the front of the compartment, reached out and banged on the window between the back and the cab. "Hello? Sorry for the confusion. I don't know what my friends have been telling you, but I'm not dead, and there's really no reason to go to the hospital. If you could just drop us off…?"

The first passenger turned in her seat and smiled at Gambit. He frowned. She looked familiar…

"He is awake, sir," she informed, and Gambit saw the man beside her turn as well.

"Very good," he approved.

Gambit's eyes widened. "YOU!" He whipped his head round to face his colleagues. "Purdey, Steed, it's-!"

The gas flowed into the enclosed space suddenly, too fast for them to react. Gambit felt himself choking, reached blindly for his tie to loosen it. Purdey and Steed were doubled over with coughs as the vapour reached their lungs. She was fading fast, her body mass much less than the men's, and easier to overwhelm. Gambit caught the confused look in her eyes right before she lost consciousness. He reached out and caught her as she fell, managed to lay her on the stretcher just as Steed dropped to his knees. Then it was his turn. He could feel his body weakening, falling into sleep. Soon he was kneeling, too, then on all fours. But even as the darkness crept into the edges of his vision, he could see the eyes watching him. He knew who was doing this. The question was: why? That was his last conscious thought before the blackness took him.


	4. Wake Up Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
>  
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could hear water. Just water, lapping against a surface. And gulls, screeching overhead. Somewhere in the distance, there were cars, racing back and forth with a faint swish. But closer still were voices, calling to one another over the background din. He eased his eyes open, just a careful bit, and groaned. His head was splitting, and his mouth was impossibly dry. He tried to turn over, but that made his head hurt more, so he lay still and focused on opening his eyes, bit by agonizing bit, until he could see the blue skies, and the white slips circling above him, which his fevered brain identified as the aforementioned gulls.

Eventually he felt well enough to turn his head, and that let him take in his surroundings. There were crates, big ones, surrounding him, effectively hiding him from any onlookers. He rolled onto his side and groaned, somehow found his way onto his hands and knees, head ducked, paying no heed to the tie that was dragging in the dust. After a few deep breaths, he felt ready to try standing. It turned out to be a bad idea, and one collapse in the dust later, he was upright and clinging to one of the crates for dear life. Five minutes later he tried free-standing again, this time with more success. He found himself staggering through the crates and out into the sound. It was a pier.

He wandered aimlessly down it, passing men operating machines and loading boxes. Obviously this dock was for shipping, imports. And merchant seamen. He felt comfortable here, for some reason. He didn't have anything else to do, so he let his mind drift along with the shouted conversations.

"Bit to the left, mate!"

"No, supposed to be number five."

"Check in the back!"

Without warning, pain stabbed through his body, and he collapsed to his knees, clutching his abdomen. There were shouts, and suddenly a hand on his shoulder. "You all right, mate?" He waited a moment, felt the pain subside, before looking up into the craggy features of a kindly older sailor.

"Yeah," he grunted. "Yeah, I'm okay." He let the man help him to his feet, and over to one of the smaller crates to take a seat. "Probably just heartburn." He didn't believe that, not really, but something made him lie. "Thanks."

The sailor waved him off. "Anything for a fellow mariner."

The head of his charge snapped up. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're a sailor yourself, aren't you? Don't get that walk living on land most of your life."

He thought about that. "No, I guess not," he murmured, then stood tentatively. "Thanks again."

The older man looked concerned. "You sure you're all right, mate?"

"Fine. Really," the man in the suit assured, before hurrying away. The truth was, he wasn't all right. He'd only just realized that there was a greater mystery to be solved than where he was and how he came to be here.

He didn't have the slightest idea who he was, either.

Amnesia. That's what they called it in the films. That meant he wasn't completely blank. He remembered how to walk and talk and fragments of old movies. He just couldn't remember anything about his life. His family, his friends, his own name. It was frightening even to consider, but he fought down the building panic. The old man had provided him one clue. He did walk with a sailor's rolling gait. He checked his hands. A pinky ring, but the skin itself wasn't rough enough for a man who was still serving. Unless he was an officer. It would explain the suit and tie. He checked his watch. It was fairly expensive too, and the suit was tailored for him alone. Something moved against his chest, and a quick check revealed the pendant. A St. Christopher. That clinched it. He had been a sailor at some point, although something told him he no longer was now. That wasn't particularly helpful. Sure, there'd be records somewhere, but walking in and asking "Who am I?" would attract attention, and he knew that wasn't something he wanted. He just wished he knew why.

Wallet. Of course! His wallet. He patted his pockets frantically. Wallets meant names and receipts and unflattering driving licence photos. Your wallet was you, compressed into a piece of leather. He found it in his inside pocket, withdrew it hastily. Yes, this would provide some answers. He opened it with shaking fingers, and felt despair set in at what he saw.

Not one piece of ID. Not one. Just money. Bills of varying denominations. And coins in the change section. He scrabbled through, desperate for any other clue, but there was none. What sort of man was he, that he didn't carry any identification at all? Had he been mugged? But why leave the money? Was he some sort of criminal? Did that explain the dosh? But a quick count revealed a sum good for a few meals and bus fare, but nowhere near that of a haul of a successful criminal. In frustration, he tipped the envelope over and shook it desperately.

A single piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

He fell upon it like a starving man at a feast, shaking fingers smoothing it from crumpled to readable. It bore only one word.

Cunningham.

He frowned. Cunningham? Who was that? Was it him? Something in the hazy recesses of his mind told him 'no,' but somewhere else a tiny, faint bell was ringing. He tried to follow it, but it disappeared just as quickly. No, let it come. If he forced it, he'd get nowhere. Just give it time.

He checked through the rest of his pockets for anything else, but other than a ring of keys, he was unsuccessful. Keys to what? Presumably a home and a car, but he didn't have the foggiest idea where to find either. There were no addresses in his blank mind, nothing but—

A flat.

It had come. While he'd been wondering about where he lived, he'd seen a flat. A flat in a building. It wasn't his—he was certain of that. But Cunningham. It could be his. Maybe Cunningham knew the answer. Maybe he could explain to the man in the suit who walked like a sailor who he was and where he'd come from. It wasn't as if he had any other leads.

Charged with purpose, he strode off toward the sound of cars. There must be a bus, somewhere…

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stepped off the bus at a large brown monstrosity. He'd let himself go, let his mind guide him from one street to another as he went. Now he was certain he'd come to the right place. Cunningham. Somewhere, there was a connection between this building and that name. He sighed and closed his eyes, willed his mind to open. Which flat, which flat?

276, came the reply, in a voice that wasn't his, spoken by a man whose face he could not see. He sighed and opened his eyes. 276 it was, come hell or high water.

Inside, the building was humble, in every sense of the word. Not downright seedy, but there were certainly many, many posher dwellings in London. Cunningham was either a man of limited means, or cheap. There was no doorman, and the carpet was in need of a change or a clean. The lift wasn't out of order, surprisingly, and he stepped inside and found himself choosing the right floor automatically. He'd been here before. He must have. That was a hopeful sign, at least. If he'd been here, someone must know him. And his name.

The lift opened into a drab hall, complete with more fraying carpet, and taupe walls. He followed the doors, watching the numbers tick upward in increments of two, found himself finally at 276. And answers. He raised his fist to knock…

…and dropped it again.

The door was open.

He stepped back a pace, unsure of what this meant, and why it worried him so much. An open door. What did it matter? Sometimes people propped their doors open on purpose. It didn't mean anything.

Except that someone is there. And they might have it in for the next someone who strolls inside. Oh, the instinct was strong now, had been strong from the start. For whatever reason, he was guarded and on the alert, like a man who was used to being hunted. Nothing was innocent in his eyes. It all meant something. This meant something. He found himself reaching automatically beneath his arm, but there was nothing there. He paused and stared at the odd gesture. What had he hoped to find? His fingers itched to close around something solid. He withdrew his hand slowly, swallowed hard. This was strange. No, beyond strange. Weird. Bizarre. Madness. And the only clue he had was this door, this room. Cunningham. He couldn't afford to walk away. He had nowhere else to walk to.

Gently, carefully, he prodded the door open, and peeked inside. The flat was sparsely appointed, a table and chairs and a lamp with a bare bulb providing the only ornamentation. He pushed the door open a bit more, and noticed a figure to the right of the lamp, pondering the faded wallpaper. His heart leapt. Perhaps this was Cunningham! Suspicions forgotten, he pushed the door open all the way, calling out as he did so. "Hello?"


	5. Meeting What's Her Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------

The figure whipped round in surprise, and stepped into the light. He was surprised to discover it was a girl. She squeaked, and reached out to grab the lamp, lifting it off the ground and swinging the base in a wide arc toward him. He found himself leaping back to save his head from blunt trauma, and pressed back against the wall as the girl stood her ground.

"Stay back!" she ordered. "Or I'll knock your block off!"

He raised his hands in surrender, making a quick visual sweep. She was tall, even taller in the high heels she wore. Her hair was blonde and cut short in a mushroom bob, like a schoolboy's, only infinitely more attractive on her. The eyes were large and blue, and the jaw was wickedly cut. She was slim, but the muscles in her arms as she brandished her weapon spoke to a fitness that belied the wonderful figure. If he wasn't in danger of a concussion, he'd have said something suave. As it was, he could only hope for something other than decapitation.

"Sorry to startle you," he tried to soothe. "I'm just looking for someone."

She snorted. "I'll bet you are. Looking for something, too, I'd hazard." The voice was clear, crisp, like a piece of cut glass, sharp in all the right places. "Well, I'm not that kind of girl."

"No, no," he countered. "No, nothing like that. I…thought that someone I knew lived here."

Her eyes narrowed. "And who are you?"

He grinned nervously. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

She didn't seem fazed by this. "Try me," she said dryly.

He swallowed. Lying would be a bad move here. He had a feeling the girl would be able to tell. "Well, I, er, you see-"

"Spit it out!" she demanded, and he found himself obeying.

"I don't know!" he blurted, and waited for the retribution. To his surprise, the lamp was lowered.

"What do you mean you don't know?" she asked, a little softer this time.

He lowered his raised hands, encouraged by the gesture. "Just as I said. I don't have the foggiest idea who I am or what happened for me to get this way." He noticed she was thoughtful, started to wonder if there was more here than met the eye. "Wait a minute, you're not…blank…too, are you?"

She fingered the lamp nervously. "Well, I—" Her head snapped up suddenly. "What was that?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Only me." The third voice came from the doorway, and both occupants of the cramped flat spun to face the speaker. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"

The lamp was at the ready again, the girl splitting her attention between the two men. "I knew it!" she exclaimed, eyes accusing. "There're two of you. How did it work? One of you slipped me the mickey, and the other one carried me out? Is that how it went?"

The ex-sailor's eyes widened. "No!" he said in horror. "I've never seen him before. Least, not that I can remember." He regarded the newcomer with the same modicum of suspicion that was currently being displayed by the girl. He was a tall man, about the same height as the sailor himself, but with a huskier build. The hair was dark and wavy, and the grey eyes exuded a warmth that belied the steel he could detect beneath. The face was warm and open, but there was no doubt that it could change at a moment's notice. He was older, too, perhaps mid-fifties, although the way he held himself made age seem irrelevant. The suit was expensive and well-cut, complete with a pair of matching grey Chelsea boots. That was misleading, too. The clothes didn't disguise the air of authority. The sailor in him withheld the urge to salute. Or was there something else behind the instinct? Was this man in a position of authority in his life? He struggled with the memories, but none were forthcoming. He looked back at the girl and hoped she'd trust him. "Look, if anyone drugged you, it wasn't me."

She made a face. "How the hell would you know? You don't remember anything!"

"Well, no," he was forced to agree. "But I just can't believe I'd do something like that." He leveled his gaze at the stranger. "What about you?"

The man's fingers twitched, like they were missing something to grasp, much the way the sailor's had earlier. "I'm afraid I'm entirely ignorant on that front as well, miss."

"Right," she countered, unconvinced. "I suppose you've been stricken with amnesia, too?"

"Well, as a matter of fact…"

She laughed mirthlessly. "Isn't that a coincidence? Three people in a flat without the slightest idea who they are. And you expect me to believe you?"

"Look," the sailor tried. "If you'd just put the lamp down, we could talk about this."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? I put this down, and you two are on me faster than you can say 'uncle.'" She swung the heavy metal object again, and both men jumped back a pace.

"I can't speak for him." The ex-sailor jerked a thumb at the older man. "But I promise I won't hurt you."

She arched an unimpressed eyebrow. "Put yourself in my position, boys. You're young, female, you've just lost your memory, and you're alone in a flat with two strange men. Which part is supposed to make me trust, hmm?"

"You're absolutely right," the dangerous gentleman agreed. The girl blinked.

"I am?"

"Yes. You're right that it can't possibly be coincidence that three people, all suffering from amnesia, would choose to visit this flat. There must be a reason. And while I fully understand your suspicions, presumably you didn't wake up here."

"Well, no." There was a sliver of doubt in her eyes, and the lamp wavered slightly. "I woke up in a boarded-up theatre an hour ago."

The sailor's eyes met hers in surprise. "That's about when I came to. Only I was at the docks." They looked expectantly at their third.

"An hour," he agreed. "The local cemetery."

The other two shuddered involuntarily. "Lovely," said the girl.

"And when we awoke, we had no recollection of who we were or how we came to be there?" the older man went on.

"Right," the sailor agreed.

"So why, then, did you come here? Surely you must have had some reason? And it wasn't coercion?"

"Yes," the sailor agreed, exchanging glances with the girl. Her conviction was clearly wavering, and the lamp with it.

"Well, then, why don't we all bring those reasons out in the open? Perhaps we can help one another if we pool our information. Now, you." He pointed to the sailor, taking control. "Would you like to start?"

"He said he was looking for someone," the blonde murmured.

"I am," the sailor confirmed, digging in his pocket for the scrap of paper. "I don't have any ID on me, but I found this piece of paper that said—"

"Cunningham?" The gentleman opened his hand to reveal an identical piece of paper. "So have I."

There was a gasp from the girl. "You too?" she queried. She delved in her dress pocket, one hand still clutching the lamp, and extracted the third. "Snap."

The sailor sucked his breath in through his teeth. "That's definitely not a coincidence," he declared to the room at large.

"I'd say that was a fairly safe assumption," the gentleman agreed. "Now then, isn't it interesting that three amnesiacs would find their way here, when they've no memories to guide them?"

"Funny?" the girl exclaimed. "Downright bizarre. My brain sort of remembered the way, one piece at a time. Next thing I know I'm here. It was like someone was guiding me, telling me if I found Cunningham, I'd learn who I was, too." She bit her lip. "If that makes sense…?"

"That's how I felt," the sailor murmured, reaching out tentatively to touch the lamp. "I think we're all in the same boat here," he said softly. "We'll do better if we work together. But that means we're going to have to trust each other, just a bit."

She hesitated, then slowly, carefully, lowered it. Then she sighed and set it down on the floor. "All right…"

"Good," the sailor said, looking from one to another. "I guess the best place to start would be with names. I know we don't know the real ones, but we've got to call one another something other than 'Oi! You!'"

She crossed her arms expectantly. "Such as…?"

He smiled weakly. "I don't suppose 'blondie's' in the cards?"

"No," she nixed, voice dripping with disdain. "How would you like it if I called you 'Curly'?" She looked him up and down. "Or 'Slim'?"

He smirked a little. "You can call me whatever you want, love."

"Not 'love,' either," she asserted, then grinned in spite of herself. "Slim."

Slim grinned back. "All right, give me a minute." He cast his eyes downward, noticed her shoes. They were dusty, betraying her journey from the theatre. She'd done an admirable job of cleaning up otherwise, but he found himself focusing on the lavender heels, complete with ankle-strap. "Your shoes," he murmured.

She cast a downward glance. "What about them?"

"They've got a girl's name, don't they? Mary-somethings?"

"Mary-Jane's," she informed, scrunched up her face. "Mary-Jane. Or Jane, rather. I suppose that could work."

"Janey!" Slim said cheerfully. "What about Janey?"

"Why Janey?" She was more curious than anything. Somewhere deep down it struck a chord, but she had no way of knowing it was doing the same for him.

"Janey. It…sounds right, is all." He shrugged, then stuck out his hand. "Truce?"

She actually smiled this time. "Pleased to meet you, Slim."

"Pleasure's all mine, Janey." They looked to their third party, who was watching the proceedings with interest. Slim shifted uncomfortably. "And you, er, sir?"

He smiled knowingly. "That'll do nicely."

Janey furrowed her brow. "Sir?"

"Until I come across the real thing, yes," he said cheerfully. "Now, then. What's our plan of attack? Anything of interest in the flat?"

Janey shook her head. "There isn't much of anything to search. I've been trying the wallpaper for scribblings, but no luck so far." She ran her fingers through her short blonde tresses.

Slim looked thoughtful. "Did you check the table and chairs?"

"For what?" Janey queried. "There aren't any drawers."

"I didn't mean drawers," Slim said absently, wandering over to tip one of the spindly wooden chairs on its side. He checked the bottom, then moved on to the next.

Janey crossed her arms impatiently. "You don't really think there's going to be something taped underneath, do you? That's a bit obvious."

Slim was on the last chair, and he smiled in satisfaction. "Obvious, maybe," he allowed. "But all the same…" He peeled a piece of paper off the wood, and held it up for all to see. Janey pouted a little, but Sir seemed more interested in the contents than scoring points.

"List of names, is it?" he observed, peering over Slim's shoulder.

"Looks that way," the younger man agreed, surveying the text for something, anything that would put his memory in gear. Janey, realizing her mood wasn't about to be indulged, gave up and trekked over to survey the paper over Slim's other shoulder.

"Names and numbers," she clarified.

"Any of them ring any bells?" Sir wanted to know.

Slim scratched his head. "They do seem sort of familiar," he allowed. "Though I couldn't say why. Jefferson, Beverley, Charles, Steed. Could be anyone. Could be us, for all we know."

"Hmm." Sir scanned the list. "Martin, Purdey, O'Neil, Gambit, Carling, Wethers. There must be a dozen at least."

"Do you think these are home numbers?" Janey ventured. "If they are, and we know these people, well, they could just tell us who we are."

Sir shook his head. "I don't think so. And I'd prefer to trace the addressed before we ring anyone. Something—instinct—tells me we should tread carefully."

"I've got to agree with Sir Whatsit," Slim told Janey. "There's something really wrong here, and I'd just as soon not show our hand. Anyway, if we do end up with home addresses, and no one's at home, how are we meant to know if we're the ones that are out. You could be—" He squinted at the list. "Campbell for all we know. Or Purdey."

Janey snorted. "Purdey. What sort of a name would that be for a girl?" She made a face. "Well then, what shall we do? Split them and trace the numbers?"

"Yes," Sir agreed. "We'll each check our set, and then check back at a designated time."

Slim gasped suddenly, legs giving way and sending him crashing to the floor. His head felt like it had been split open with an axe, his throat closed up, and his stomach was a knot of pain. Janey and Sir were by his side instantly, turning him over and loosening his tie.

"Slim!" Janey was saying, turning his head to face her. "What is it? What's wrong?" She looked up, presumably at Sir. "Check his pulse."

Slim groaned again as another wave of agony washed over him. His breath was growing short, and blackness danced at the edges of his vision. Somewhere, far away, he could see a pair of eyes peering through a slat, framed in fog. It was significant, somehow, and he struggled to hang onto the memory, but it drifted out of his grasp. He concentrated on breathing, instead. In. Out. In. Out. That's it.

After a minute he felt well enough to open his eyes again. Janey was leaning over him, concern etched on her features. "Slim?" she said softly, caressing his forehead. "Can you hear me?"

He nodded, mouth too dry to speak. She looked across at Sir. "Help me get him into a chair."

Between the pair of them they were able to manhandle the slim frame into one of the cheap wooden seats. Slim lay back gratefully, letting the back take his weight, and Janey crouched beside him, watching for any sign of a relapse. Sir's thoughts, however, were beyond the patient, as he cast his eyes over the dingy flat.

"Where's the paper?" he asked urgently.

Slim opened his eyes, glanced down at his clenched right fist. He opened it carefully to reveal the crumpled sheet. "I've still got it," he rasped. "Don't worry."

"I'll take that, if you don't mind," Sir said forcefully, putting actions to words. Janey scowled at him, as though his lack of empathy offended her personally. She wasn't sure why, but Slim's well-being meant a great deal to her. She reached up and laid a hand across his forehead, then transferred it to his cheek.

"How are feeling?"

Slim swallowed, nodded slightly. "Fine. I'm fine."

Janey didn't look convinced. "You're white as a sheet. What was that?"

Slim shook his head in frustration. "Dunno. Suddenly my brain fogs up, and my legs go, and I can't breathe. And there's the pain."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere."

"Has it ever happened before? I mean, if you can remember."

"It happened not long after I woke up. Came on suddenly, then went away just as fast." He shrugged as best he could from the chair. "I don't know what it is or what causes it, and if I'm meant to be on meds, I don't have them or a prescription."

"You'll have to be careful, then," Sir advised. "Or sit the legwork out while Janey and I investigate these names."

"No, no. I want to help. Really. I'll be all right." Slim smiled as best he could, but the sweat beaded on his forehead didn't help his case.

"I don't think you should be out there alone. Not when you're compromised as it is." Janey pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'll come with you."

Both Sir and Slim started to protest, but she held up a hand. "I won't take no for an answer."

"How do I know you two won't double-cross me?" Sir queried, eyes narrowing.

"The same way we won't know if you'll do the same. We have to trust each other. I thought that was the plan." Janey crossed her arms. "Don't make me bring the lamp out again."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Slim wanted to know, standing up from his seat.

"No. You're no good to anyone lying dead in an alley somewhere. Look, Sir, you can even take half the names. Slim and I will take the other half. We'll meet back here at—" She checked her watch. "Two o'clock, and report what we've found. All right?"

The set of the jaw was stubborn, and both men knew they were beat, although neither was entirely sure why they felt compelled to listen. Sir sighed, tore the list in half, and gave one section to the girl. "I'll see you at two."

Janey grinned. "Good luck. For all our sakes."


	6. The Peabody Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> \----------------------------------------------

"What rotten luck!" Janey fumed, stalking down the gangplank of the small tugboat. Slim hurried after her, being careful to avoid her wildly gesticulating arms.

"It could be going better," he allowed. "But we don't have much to work with, and remember Sir's got the rest of the names. Maybe he's having better luck."

"That's not difficult," Janey snapped. "Five of the six names, and we're no closer to figuring out who Cunningham is, let alone who we are. All we've got to show for it are our bus tickets and my poor abused feet." She stopped and pointed accusingly at the vessel. "And to top it all off, that miserable sod had to get snippy. Oohh, if I weren't a lady…"

Slim didn't comment, just walked a pace or two behind as Janey muttered a string of oaths under her breath. He couldn't blame her. It was discouraging. They'd managed to trace all the numbers listed on their piece of paper. Somehow, they'd known exactly how and where to look, not that it had helped. Not one of the numbers had led to a conventional dwelling. Their latest stop, the tugboat, had been as helpful as the old church, the hostel, the train station, and the thrift shop. No one knew anything about a 'Cunningham,' where there was someone to ask, and denied any acquaintance with the names on the list. Of all, the owner of the tugboat had been the most hostile to their questions, and Slim had extracted Janey before her temper had flared any more and gotten the police involved. They had only one name and address left, and Slim had to admit he was losing hope fast. On a positive note, he was feeling better since his earlier attack, and there hadn't been any sign of a relapse since. He caught up with Janey and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, we're not beaten yet. There's still one name left. Who knows, maybe they saved the best for last." He smiled encouragingly. Janey sighed and kicked up the leaves.

"Maybe," she allowed. "But I'd feel better if we at least knew who 'they' were."

"Well, we're definitely not going to find anything out if we mope around all day," Slim asserted, linking his arm with hers. "No way to go but forward. And if we have any money left after this, I'll buy you a drink!"

She smirked. "You know your way to a girl's heart, don't you?"

"I don't know what I know. I just stumble along best I can." He winked at her. "Hurry up or we'll miss our bus."

Their last address took them to a warehouse district. Most of the creaking old buildings were abandoned, but one of them, at least, had a working phone with a number. They'd called it earlier, and it had definitely been ringing. The bus didn't go out quite far enough, so there was a fair walk to their destination. Slim watched the girl striding along beside him, wondered vaguely if she was thinking the same things as he.

"Does it frighten you at all?" he asked with no warning, and Janey turned her head to frown at him.

"Does what frighten me?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. This. I mean, don't you wonder what sort of person you are if you know mysterious men in slightly dodgy flats with lists of names taped under the furniture? Doesn't seem incredibly legit, does it?"

Janey looked mildly worried. "I hadn't really thought about it. You have to admit, there's a lot going on. But now that you mention it…it does seem a bit fishy, doesn't it?" She swallowed. "You don't think we're something really horrible, do you?"

"Define 'horrible.'"

"I don't know. Murderers. Robbers. Con artists." She brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes impatiently. "Someone on the wrong side of the law. I feel as though I should be looking over my shoulder all the time."

"You too, eh?" Slim worked his jaw. "Do you think it's better that we don't know?"

Janey shook her head. "No. I don't think I could live not knowing. Not forever. Not if there was a chance to do something about it. Not knowing's worse, definitely."

"I don't know," Slim sighed. "Only…I think I reached for a gun earlier. It wasn't there, obviously, but I felt like I should have something under my arm, like a holster. And I was used to it being there." He shuddered. "I don't know who I'd have to be to carry a gun so often that it's become an instinct, but I doubt there are many admirable answers."

Janey stopped, studied his face. "It can't be too terrible. You don't look like a monster."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean it. I'm not afraid of you, not even somewhere in the back of my mind. If anything, I think I should trust you."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Was that how you felt when you were threatening to take my head off with that lamp?"

She put her hands on her hips. "I was frightened of everything, not just you. Can you blame me?" She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "Look, the way you've been acting, you must be somewhat decent. Other people would have made a run for it, or at least tried to do something to me." She grinned. "Now I'm the one cheering you up."

"Share and share alike." He grinned back. "I think this must be it. Warehouse 4, right?"

She glanced down at the scrap of paper she'd scribbled the address on. "Right."

Slim studied the structure. "Not much to look at, is it?"

"I'll bet you're not a dream every morning, either," Janey quipped. "Anyway, we're not here to judge the aesthetic appeal. Perhaps the beauty is inside."

"Hmm." Slim followed Janey over to the door. She tried the knob, and was surprised when it opened. Cautiously, they ventured into the darkened interior.

Slim felt along the wall until his fingers closed on a lightswitch. He flicked it and instantly the cavernous space was flooded with artificial light. He shielded his eyes from the glare, but in the end the view wasn't any more interesting than that outside. Bare floors, empty save for another table and chair in the corner of the room. Janey cast a backward glance at her companion, before making for the only furniture in the room. She quickly looked under the chair and table, running her hand along the wood. "Nothing," she informed Slim. "Nothing at all."

"No, you had the right idea last time," Slim murmured. Janey frowned, straightened up to find him facing the wall. She moved to join him, and he grinned at her approach. Then he reached out and brushed away some of the peeling paint on the warehouse wall. Underneath, written in black biro, were the words 'In case of emergency,' followed by an address and phone number. "I'd say this was an emergency," Slim drawled. "What do you think?"

"I think," Janey said crisply, "that we've got just enough time to make it. But you'll have to quit standing around looking smug."

"Who, me?"

"Come on." She was already sprinting away. "Emergency had better mean a place to sit down, because my feet are killing me. And I've got the bus fare, so if you don't want to be left behind…"

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Slim sprinted after her, marveled how fast she ran and how he was able to keep up. At least he was a fit killer, or whatever he was. That quenched him, but then he looked at Janey, and how content she seemed just to run with him by her side, and thought that whoever they were, if they could feel this companionable, they couldn't be all bad. That was going to have to be enough for now.

And it was.

Janey got off the bus and scanned the street. Nothing looked familiar, but this was definitely the right one, according to the message on the wall. It was a residential neighborhood, finally. Pleasant, with lots of windowboxes and black metal gates. They were a little too far up, though, she realized when she noticed the number of the nearest home. She looked back to make sure Slim had dismounted as well, before pointing off to the right. "It'll be this way. The numbers are too big."

"Yeah," Slim said distractedly, taking in his surroundings. "I think I remember this street."

Janey blinked. "Did you pass it earlier today?"

Slim shook his head. "No, no. I've been here lots of times, for some reason or another. If only I could remember why…"

"Maybe it'll be clearer once we've found the place," Janey suggested when he started to pale from the exertion of pushing the memory. She reached out and grasped his arm just above the elbow, started to pull him down the sidewalk.

But when they reached the space where the dwelling was meant to be, the number was missing. Janey cast her eyes around in confusion. "We didn't miss it?" she asked Slim, but he shook his head.

"It should be here," he confirmed, "although the way today's going, an address that doesn't exist shouldn't be much of a surprise to either of us."

Janey put a finger to her lips in thought. "Maybe we could ask someone." Across the street, a woman was watering her garden. She called out cheerfully.

"Purdey!"

Janey ignored her, lost in her thoughts.

"Purdey!"

Janey felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to meet Slim's gaze. "What?"

"I might be wrong," Slim said softly. "But I think she means you." He jerked his head toward the woman, who had set down her watering can and was now hurrying across the road toward them.

"Me?" Janey frowned. "Who—?"

"Purdey! My goodness, child, are you deaf?" The woman stopped before them and tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. She had a wide, open face, and looked to be in her fifties. "I was wondering when you'd get back. You were in such a hurry when you left this morning, I thought I'd make certain everything was as it should be."

Janey exchanged glances with Slim. "Purdey?" she mouthed.

"She's not talking to me, love," he hissed back. Janey turned back to the woman and pasted a smile on her face.

"I'm sorry, what time did you see me this morning?"

"Oh, couldn't have been later than half past ten. I was putting Tiddles out, and you were up those stairs as though the devil was after you, and off in that little car of yours. At a highly irresponsible speed, I might add."

"Stairs?" Janey glanced behind her at the flight. They were exactly where her missing number should have been. "Oh, you mean I came up the stairs from my…flat?"

"Yes, child." The woman looked perplexed. "Where else would you come from? Honestly, those 21 steps will be the death of you one of these days, running up and down at all hours. And the traffic." She looked pointedly at Slim.

"I'm sorry," Janey jumped in. If this woman knew who she was, maybe she knew Slim, too. "Have I ever introduced you?"

The woman pulled herself up to her full height. "No," she said frostily. "You've never bothered to introduce your young man."

"My young man?" Janey repeated, eyes widening. "Sorry, you don't mean-"

"Oh, there's no point in hiding it dear. He's always here, day and night. Don't think I don't notice." She eyed Slim up appraisingly. "You really ought to be a little more discrete, Mr…?"

Panic gleamed in Slim's eyes, and his eyes darted around wildly. Name, name. Any one would do. "Mike," he pulled out of thin air, then realized it felt less than random. "I'm Mike. Pleased to meet you, Miss…?"

"Mrs. Mrs. Gloria Peabody. How do you do?" She shook his hand, albeit with slight disdain. "Well, Mike, now that I have you here, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your antics behind closed doors."

"Antics?" Slim asked nervously, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

"Yes. And you, too, Purdey. I know you young people like to keep thing interesting, but honestly, have a little pride. Carrying Purdey to the car in her slip may be all well and good for you, but there are children in the neighborhood!"

Slim's jaw dropped open, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. "What?"

"And as for you, Purdey, I really expected more of a nice young woman like you. I understand you have…urges, and Mike is very attractive, and I assume looks particularly fetching disrobed—" Slim started making choking noises, which quickly evolved into coughing, "—but that's no excuse for such behaviour."

"You've…you've actually seen us?" Janey croaked. "I mean, we don't go around…you know…in front of everyone?"

"Not as yet," Mrs. Peabody sniffed, "but it's only a matter of time if you keep up the way you are. Now, I've always liked you, child, and that's why I've chosen to speak up before some unsympathetic soul decides to tie in."

"I...see," Janey managed. "Well, thank you. Thank you very much, Mrs. Peabody. We'll think on that. Right, Sl—I mean, Mike?"

Slim was still trying to clear his airways, but he managed to nod. "Right," he rasped. "Thank you."

"No trouble at all," Mrs. Peabody demurred. "Now then, I'll let you two scuttle off to do whatever it is you do." Her gaze lingered a fraction of a second too long on Slim, particularly around his hips. "Yes, I think I'd better see to the flowers. It's getting rather hot. Excuse me…" Gloria Peabody hurried back across the road, bit not before turning to smile once more at Slim. He smiled back weakly, then leaned toward Janey.

"Help."

"The flat's downstairs. She can't see you there." Janey grabbed Slim's hand and dragged him down the steps with her.


	7. Flawed Logic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------------------

The door at the bottom was perfect and white, with a mail slot and a window concealed by a gauzy curtain. Janey dug in her pocket and extracted a keyring, held them in her open palm like an offering to some higher being. "Which one?" she wondered.

Slim shrugged. "Try them all."

Janey tried that, but in the end the third one proved successful. She eased the door open slowly, reverently. She felt like she was trespassing on someone else's life, never mind if this flat was really hers. She looked to Slim for encouragement, and he urged her forward. She took a deep breath and stepped inside, leaving him to follow and close the door behind him.

The flat was done up in white, all crisp and clean. Janey gazed around in fascination at the plush couch, the upright piano, and the collection of bellows. And the barre. A brief snatch of a memory flitted over her mind, of a mirror, and her own leg up on the wood, and a man standing behind her, hands in pockets. He had dark hair and was tall. And slim. She bit her lip and glanced back at Slim.

"Look familiar?" Slim queried.

Janey crossed her arms. "I was about to ask you the same."

Slim arched an eyebrow. "Why me? It's supposed to be your flat." He paused, then smiled. "You don't believe that Peabody woman, do you?"

"You did say you remembered this street," Janey pointed out. "And why would she make it up? Besides, I get the distinct impression you've spent a lot of time here…Mike."

He whipped around to face her. "What did you call me?"

"Mike. That's how you introduced yourself. Any particular reason?"

He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Dunno. First thing that popped in my head. Although…" He tapped his thigh thoughtfully. "It sounded right, somehow."

Janey watched him, watched him standing there, studied the profile with the obviously broken nose, noticed the way his top lip dipped dramatically in the middle. She saw the impossibly long eyelashes for the first time, and the way the dark curls waved back from his forehead. And the blue eyes, and how they shifted into green when the light hit them just right.

She sighed.

"Well, we might as well take a look since we're here." Slim's voice broke into her thoughts. "You want to take the bedroom? Just in case you left your knickers lying on the bed or something?"

Janey blushed. "From the sounds of things, you've seen my knickers on more than one occasion."

Slim grinned. "Right, but I don't remember a thing, sadly, so it's still worth protecting your virtue. I'll wander around the living area here."

Janey shook her head, and moved toward the beaded curtains covering the entrance to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. If she had left in a hurry, she'd clearly only panicked after the morning chores had been completed. Everything else was in order, neat and tidy. There was an eyebrow pencil that seemed to have been set down absently, and never properly stored. She picked it up and stared at it, pondering the niggling feeling in the back of her mind. This had a connection to something important not long ago. She sighed, and set it down again. That was when she noticed the pictures. Scattered on the dresser were small framed photos, many of which featured her. She bent to get a better look, scanned each one in turn. There were several of her with an older blonde woman and a white-haired gentleman with glasses, dressed in some sort of religious garb. Others featured another older man, this one with a mustache, and decked out in military dress. But it was the ones off to the left that held her interest.

There were three of them. The first featured herself and two men, whom she quickly identified as Slim and Sir. She had an arm around each of their shoulders, and all three were grinning at the camera. The next depicted her with Sir, his arm around her waist, she decked out in a lilac pantsuit. Both were holding champagne flutes, and the clutch of people in the background, coupled with the bright decorations, led her to assume it was taken at some sort of party. But the last photo was the most important. This time, it was just her and Slim, stretched out on a large leather couch, both dressed casually in slacks. He had his feet up on the coffee table, a newspaper in one hand, a biro in the other, clearly in the process of solving a crossword puzzle. She was resting her chin on his shoulder, likely with the intention of helping. But neither of them were paying the puzzle any heed. Instead, they were grinning at each other with a fondness born of long association, and a closeness that could never be understood by anyone other than them. Janey lifted the picture reverently. She'd seen that look on Slim's face, albeit dulled by the amnesia. The one that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, the only one that could ever truly give her what she sought. She found herself wrestling with the frame, casting the backing aside so she could see the back of the photo. In a cursive script, someone had written:

"M-I-K-E-G-A-M-B-I-T. Ten letter word for 'impossible.'"

And in another hand, this one an untidy scrawl, another word had been written utilizing the 'E':

"P-U-R-D-E-Y. Six-letters for 'beautiful trouble.' And I'm still right about five down."

"Janey?" She glanced up in surprise. Slim was peering through the curtains at her. "Anything interesting?"

"Mike," she breathed, eyes shining.

Slim frowned, pushed through the curtains to approach her. "Sorry? What?"

"Mike. You really are called Mike. Mike Gambit. And I'm Purdey. See?" She handed him the photo. He glanced at it, then read the back, before raising his eyes to meet hers.

"That's us, all right." He dropped his eyes again, shyly. "So, does this mean we're…? I mean, you and I…?"

"What else could it mean? We've already had Mrs. Peabody as a witness. You remembering coming her over and over. Carrying me out in my slip." She reached out and tipped his chin up so he was forced to look at her. "We're lovers, Mike. That's the only possible explanation."

He took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. "Janey…"

"Purdey," she corrected. "It's Purdey. Call me Purdey. Say it."

He swallowed. "Purdey," he began, and she shivered with delight. It felt so good to have a proper name again, and someone to say it. "I don't know what to say. I mean, why a girl like you would end up with a bloke like me…carries a gun and all that."

"Maybe you're some sort of suave secret agent," Purdey purred, meaning it as a joke. "Like James Bond. Maybe that's what attracted me in the first place."

"It just seems too good to be true," Gambit murmured, lost in the bright pools of blue. "Maybe we ought to dig a little deeper, make sure we've got all our facts straight."

Purdey came to stand very close to him, eyes searching his face. "Oh, to hell with it," she whispered, and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his. Gambit's eyes widened in shock, and it took his addled brain a few moments to gain control of his body so he could gently break away.

"Purdey!" he gasped. "What are you…? Do you know what you're doing?"

She was clutching his lapels with an iron grip, unwilling to let go. "Look," she said seriously. "I woke up this morning without the slightest idea who I was, and I was scared. What if I never got my memory back, never learned who I was? Well, I'm still scared. I still don't have my memory. But Mike, we have our names now. I have a flat. And most importantly, I have you." Her eyes were bright with hope, gazing up at him like he was the most wonderful thing she'd ever seen. It felt good. Somewhere, deep down, this was fulfilling a long-held desire. And why shouldn't it? If Purdey was his paramour, surely the feelings he had for her would overcome whatever had wiped his mind clean?

"I have you," she repeated, softer this time. "And it's been a really long, terrible day, and it's not over yet. And really, if you can't blow off some steam for an hour with a fellow amnesiac who happens to be both good-looking and your lover, when can you?"

Gambit's mouth turned upwards at the corners. "You have a point."

She smiled brilliantly, and leaned in to kiss him again. This time he was coherent enough to kiss back, but other thoughts still niggled him.

"What if it turns out I'm no good in bed?" he queried, more than a little worried. "I can't remember, and there's no guarantee I'll remember any tricks that'll be of any use to us now."

"Oh, you'll be good," Purdey asserted between kisses, breathing quickening as she pressed closer. "You must be good. I can't believe I'd saddle myself with someone who wasn't good." She leaned back to give him access to her neck, and the soft lips made remarkable progress in a short space of time. "See, you're already good," she gasped. "I knew it. You're much too handsome to not be good."

Gambit could feel her fingers roving over his chest, then reach up to rid him of his jacket. He was starting to let go, to abandon himself in the moment. Why shouldn't he? If Purdey really was involved with him, and she was initiating things, what was wrong? But still, somewhere, something told him that this wasn't quite right, that this wasn't how things were meant to go. And yet, Purdey fit so nicely in his arms when he curled them around her, and the noise she made when they toppled back onto the bed stirred something deep within him. He could smell her hair, sweet and fresh, and a hint of perfume beneath layers of travel and worry and dust from the theatre. Gentle fingers ran through his hair, and on the occasion he pulled back to look down at her, to caress her cheek, he'd found himself treated to the most radiant smile he was certain he'd ever known, even in the murky realms of his life before that day. He felt his heart soar, and bestowed Purdey with a smile that outdid her own. "I must be the luckiest man alive," he declared. "If I'm with you, I can't be all bad."

Elegant fingers reached up to unbutton his shirt. "You're not bad at all," she clarified.

Gambit let go. He let himself sink into the solid warmth of her body, let his fingers play over her blouse and fiddle with her buttons. She was pulling him closer, past the point of no return…

The phone rang.

Gambit froze, and Purdey instantly knew something had gone wrong. "Mike?" she queried, lips still against his. "You're not going to answer it?"

"It might be important," Gambit pointed out, breaking their kiss gently.

"More important than this? More important than us?" She gazed up at him, eyes confused. "We won't even know who it is, anyway."

"Even so," Gambit murmured, brushing her hair back. "I just have a feeling, that's all. I think it'd be better if I answered. Just in case." He disentangled himself gently so he could reach the phone receiver. "Hello?"

"Slim?" The voice on the other side was familiar, the only other voice Gambit knew in his current state. "Is that you?"

"Sir?" he asked in surprise. "How did you get this number?"

"One of my calls proved successful. Hat shop. The clerk knew me. Apparently I go by the name of John Steed when I'm at home. He also had a few numbers of interest, this one among them."

"It's Janey's flat," Gambit informed. "Only she's called Purdey, and I'm Gambit apparently. She's got pictures of the three of us here, so there's obviously a connection." He glanced at the arms-round-shoulders shot, smiled slightly. "A close connection. I'm surprised you got anywhere at all with your contacts. Ours were snippy when they didn't up and throw us out."

"I leaned on my man a bit, but I've a feeling of the whole lot he was under special orders of some kind. He also provided me with an envelope."

Gambit's ears perked up. "Did you open it?"

"Yes."

Gambit waited a beat, then realized that Steed wasn't going to be forthcoming. "Well?" he prodded impatiently.

"How did you make your way to Janey…Purdey's flat?" he queried, voice edged with suspicion.

"Long story," Gambit snapped.

"Try the condensed version."

"One of the numbers was connected to a warehouse. The flat's phone number was written on the wall."

"I see." Steed paused, as though digesting this information. "I don't think we can be too careful. Something's going on, and I've a feeling it's bigger than all of us."

"Won't argue with you there," Gambit agreed ruefully. "I thought I was the only one looking over his shoulder." He shuddered involuntarily, and Purdey propped herself up on her elbows to watch him. "Sooner we find Cunningham, sooner we start to get some answers."

"Ah, I may be able to help on that front," Steed told him. "The envelope. It contained an address. I've a feeling that's where we'll find Cunningham."

Gambit straightened in surprise. "You're joking."

"I'm not." Steed read out an address, and Gambit scribbled it down on a pad beside the phone.

"That's not far from Purdey's flat," he observed. "Can we meet you there?"

"I'm on my way," Steed said. "But I think we ought to agree that we'll wait until we're three before we go in. I'll meet you in the lobby. Agreed?"

"Right," Gambit promised, somehow knowing Steed was a man of his word. "We'll wait."

"I'll see you soon, then," Steed replied, before ringing off.

Gambit hung up, then took a deep breath before turning to look back at Purdey. She was still lying there, just as he'd left her, as though hoping for him to pick up where he'd left off, blouse partially undone to reveal a hint of a white lace bra. The niggling feeling was back, and now that he wasn't touching her, it was easier to exercise restraint, even with the hint of lace beckoning him back into the fold. He glanced down at his own unbuttoned shirt, occupied himself with redoing the buttons so he wouldn't have to meet the hint of disappointment in the blue eyes.

"That was Sir," he began. "Or Steed. He thinks he knows where to find Cunningham. He wants us to meet him there. Soon."

"I heard," Purdey said quietly, sitting up on the bed. "Doesn't leave much time for us, does it?"

Gambit reached out and rested a gentle hand on her arm. "There'll be plenty of time for all of that when our memories are back," he said softly, although a sizeable part of him didn't believe that for whatever reason.

"What if they never come back?" Purdey pointed out, angry for a reason neither of them understood. "What if we're stuck like this forever?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But Cunningham might be able to tell us what we're dealing with. Even if we're blank for the rest of our lives, there's nothing to keep us from rebuilding from scratch. I just think it's important that we follow up these leads as quickly as we can."

She smiled a little, and nodded. "You're right, I suppose. Bit of an opportunity, really. How many people get to fall in love twice?"

"Either way, it ought to keep things interesting." Gambit smiled back at her, and nodded at her blouse. "You might want to fix that before we go."

Purdey glanced down, blushed, and set to work on her buttons. "Distracting is it?"

"Wonderfully so."


	8. Mr. Cunningham, I Presume?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> \---------------------------------------------

Steed was waiting, true to his word, in the lobby of the building. It was another block of flats, although this one was of generally better quality than the last, complete with a doorman who smiled at Purdey and Gambit and held the door for them. Steed didn't say anything when they joined him, simply pushed the button to the lift. It wasn't until he had chosen the floor and the doors slid closed that he spoke.

"Cunningham moved here recently," he said so quietly Gambit had to strain to pick out the words. "The envelope I was given indicated that it was to be opened for emergencies only, and as I thought not remembering who one was constituted an emergency, I opened it. It also told me that this address was in effect for only two weeks, today's date falling among them. The whole affair doesn't sit well at all. I don't know who Cunningham is, but I think we ought to tread carefully."

Gambit glanced uneasily at Purdey, and saw the same uncertainty reflected in her own eyes. "Gambit thinks we're involved in…unusual work," she told Steed. "Guns and such."

Steed arched an eyebrow, and nodded once, curtly. "I think he's right." he said truthfully. "So keep your wits about you, or your memory may be the least of your troubles."

The lift dinged, and the wary trio stepped out into the corridor.

"Déjà vu, anyone?" Gambit murmured, before setting off.

"315," Steed reminded. "It'll be on my side." He counted off the numbers. "Here it is." He stopped in front of one entrance, fist poised to knock. "Ready?"

Purdey took a deep breath, glanced at Gambit. "Ready."

Steed knocked.

At first there were footsteps, which stopped just on the other side of the door while the occupant checked the view through the peep-hole. Clearly his visitors passed muster, because the brief pause was followed by the sound of bolts being drawn back. The man that opened the door didn't look anything like a master spy, or a hired killer. Instead, he was, in every sense of the word, a boffin. Older, with glasses and a timid demeanour. Gambit took a step back in surprise, but not because he'd imagined Cunningham younger and taller. This man. He knew him.

"Mr. Steed? Mr. Gambit? Miss?" The man looked from one to another in confusion. "I was told you wouldn't be collecting me for another week yet. Has something gone wrong?"

Steed's brow was furrowed. "I beg your pardon, but you are Cunningham?"

The little man blushed. "Er, yes. That's what you call me lately, isn't it? Hard to keep track with all the changes of late. Bit silly using codenames when we're face to face, though, isn't it? Surely you can call me—"

"Vasil!" Gambit blurted out. "Professor Vasil!"

Purdey's jaw dropped. "You know him?"

"Of course I know him! We all do!" Gambit looked from one face to another. "We're in charge of protecting him. Don't you remember?"

"You know we don't!" Purdey exclaimed in frustration. "That's the whole point of coming here. What I want to know is how you remember!"

"I don't know," Gambit retorted. "It's coming back, that's all. I don't know why!"

"What is?" Purdey wanted to know, frustrated at being left out of the loop.

"It. Everything. Like a dam burst. Don't tell me you didn't feel it just now." But both Purdey and Steed were regarding him with incomprehension. Gambit shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Look, everyone get inside. It's not safe out here, least of all for you, Professor." He ushered them into the flat, moved to close the door, but an arm blocked his progress. Gambit found himself forced back as the door was pressed open. The man that stood there was known to him also. Gambit suddenly remembered the face, framed in gas as he sank to the floor, the eyes meeting his right before he drifted into unconsciousness. Right before he'd lost his memory. Right before this day took a wrong turn.

He remembered now.

"You are quite correct, Mr. Gambit. It is not safe for the Professor, nor for any of you."

"Perov," Gambit spat, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I thought the Wringer was working on you."

"Who?" Purdey queried, looking to Gambit for answers while trying to keep one eye on Perov. Gambit glanced briefly at Steed, but the senior agent seemed as much at a loss as the girl.

"Ah, he was," Perov confirmed. "But I found his company most unpleasant, so I chose to leave." He eyes Gambit with interest. "You remember who I am, but your colleagues do not. Not even the great John Steed, even though he has received the treatment once before." Perov smirked infuriatingly. "Interesting. And most frustrating, I'm sure."

"Quite understandable," another voice commented, and Gambit watched as another figure stepped into the flat behind Perov. The other face. A woman. The nurse. She had short brown hair, hazel eyes. Quite attractive, really. At least he'd thought so yesterday, when she'd assisted Dr. Kendrick in the inoculation process. "He was the only one to receive the death-simulation drug. It may have weakened the effect of the amnesia drug."

Purdey, appraising to the last, looked her up and down. "Who are you?" she snapped. "And what are you talking about?"

"Sylvia Burroughs," Gambit supplied. "Nurse at the Ministry."

"The what?" Steed wanted to know.

"Ministry. It's where we work." Gambit looked back to Sylvia. "You've been working with Perov all this time, haven't you?" His mind flew back over long days spent in files, reading up on Steed's old cases, just to get an idea of how the great man worked, and what he could learn from it. One assignment stood out. "Forget-Me-Not," he murmured, with dawning realization. "That was a gas form of that old amnesia drug, wasn't it?"

"Guilty, I'm afraid," Perov admitted with a smile. "But it must be administered in a highly concentrated form in an enclosed area in order to be effective. The back of an ambulance served our purposes very well."

"And you found the perfect way to get us all back there," Gambit said ruefully. Suddenly it all made sense.

"We did. Miss Burroughs devised a variation on my own death drug. Slow-acting. When we were certain you'd been 'dead' long enough, we contacted your friends. And you have such good friends, unwilling to abandon you, even as a corpse." Perov laughed at Gambit's dark features. "So touching that they asked to accompany you on your final journey. But do not worry, my friend. You three have served your purpose perfectly. You have led me to Cunningham, just as I asked. Or should I say, Professor Vasil?" He smiled at the cringing man, peering from behind Gambit with his face awash with fear. "You see, Miss Burroughs engineered my escape simply because she became aware of the fact that the good Professor was in a temporary safehouse, ready for transfer. It was expected that you would know where he was. She also knew of an interesting alteration to the amnesia formula. A conditioning element, to guide your thoughts. You followed them to Cunningham, and we followed you. All that was needed was the code name, and Sylvia provided that."

Gambit swore under his breath. They'd compromised Vasil without even knowing it, and Purdey and Steed were still none-the-wiser. He backed up, placing his body between Perov and the Professor. "If you think I'm going to stand here and let you take him..."

"I do not expect you to, Mr. Gambit. But I do not expect you to be successful, either."

Neither do I. But he had to do something. If only he could get some help. "Purdey, Steed, get behind me, cover Vasil. I can't explain now, but the Professor is very important. Understand? Important."

They followed orders, thankfully, but Gambit still knew they were vulnerable in their compromised state, likely wiped of their training as well. That left Gambit as the only effective member of the team. Mike wished fervently for his gun, but Perov had taken it along with his ID. There was one ace, though.

"There are four of us," he pointed out. "And two of you. Now I don't think amnesia is strong enough that Steed and Purdey can't throw a punch, and I've got my wits about me." He smirked at their empty hands. "And you're not armed."

Perov grinned at Sylvia. "No," he agreed. "But they are."

Two other, heavy-set men entered. Both were armed. Gambit felt his stomach churn as they leveled the firearms at his midsection. Maybe he'd be able to take one down before he was shot, at least wind the other. It could buy Purdey and Steed a chance. They could force their way through with sheer numbers. He shifted position into a fighting stance, waiting for an opening. Perov noticed this and smiled.

"There was one other conditioning treatment, Mr. Gambit. You see, just as that drug takes away memories, it also makes it easier to implant certain notions as well. In this case a word, meant to trigger death."

Gambit stopped breathing. This didn't sound good.

"You experienced an attack by the docks, did you not? Even hearing a syllable of the conditioned word will trigger a reaction."

Gambit shook his head, swallowed hard. "I don't believe you," he lied. "That was…a side-effect of the amnesia drug."

"Really?" Perov seemed amused at this feeble defense. "Let us see if there is another, deadlier side-effect, shall we?" He paused, then spoke one, single word. A name. "Tchaikovsky."

Gambit felt his chest explode with pain, and his legs buckled beneath him. His lungs emptied and refused to refill properly. His vision blurred, heart pounded, stomach twisted.

"Mike!" Purdey screamed, dropping to her knees beside him, desperately trying to still his spasming form. "What have you done to him?"

"That's the beauty of it. I have done nothing. He will do it to himself," Perov gloated. "His mind is shutting his body down, and soon it will do the same to itself. It was programmed to do so. You will recognise the symptoms, Mr. Gambit. Similar to those experienced every time someone said a word such as 'check,' which your brain recognised as a similar sound." Gambit jerked violently at the word, a gasp of pain escaping his lips. "I am very fond of Tchaikovsky—a good Russian composer. A patriotic touch, yes?"

"Stop it!" Purdey cried. "Stop it now!"

"Only he can stop it, my dear," Perov informed. "And then only when he is dead." He turned to Steed, who was torn between helping Gambit and protecting Vasil. "Steed, my old friend. Always so clever. I must admit that trick at the windmill was one of your best deceptions. Taking the Professor's place. You have always prided yourself as being the clever one. And now you have no idea who I am, let alone what I am talking about. No clever tricks this time." He gestured for one of his armed men to approach. "But you clearly still possess common sense. And surely even reduced to an empty shell, you know it is wiser to save yourself than to protect a man you know nothing about?"

Steed's eyes were cold and grey. "Gambit said-"

"Gambit is not saying much of anything, are you Mr. Gambit?" Perov kicked the man viciously in the ribs, and Gambit rolled over onto his side, curling up and howling. Instantly, Purdey was on her feet.

"Don't you dare touch him, or I'll kill you, I swear!" she threatened, angry tears streaming down her face.

"Is that so?" Perov took three quick steps to close the gap between them. "You are a formidable girl. You fought well for someone so slight. I am sorry to say you beat me—knocked me out with one punch. I think it is time I returned the favour." His fist swung back and connected with her jaw, sending the girl crashing to the ground beside the writhing Gambit.

"Purdey!" Mike managed, but he hurt too much to help. She seemed more stunned than hurt anyway, but his vision was too blurry to be sure.

"Enough games," Perov announced. "Sylvia, help me with the professor. Steed, kindly join your friends. Mr. Gambit will need someone to see him off."

Reluctantly, Steed stepped away, over to help Purdey to her feet. The two armed goons kept their weapons trained on the trio as Sylvia and Perov latched onto the struggling professor, and dragged him out.

"Leave them alive," Perov ordered. "I want those two to recognise the full magnitude of what has happened here when their memories return. Including the death of their colleague. By the time they remember who I am, we will be long gone."

Professor Vasil struggled against the restraining hands, but it was of little use. "Come along, Professor," Perov coaxed cheerfully. "We must be at the farm within the hour. And then, home."

The two guards backed out after their leader, and closed the door behind them. Steed hurried over and tried the knob, but it was locked. "We're trapped."

"What does it matter?" Purdey wailed, cradling Gambit's head in her lap. "Mike's dying. His heart's slowing down."

Steed moved to join them again, knelt beside Gambit. "Look, Gambit, I don't pretend to know what's gone on, but I understand it's important. And I'd hazard you know why. You're only one with your memory back." He leaned over Gambit so he could meet the man's tortured eyes. "It's a drug, that's all. A drug and a bit of conditioning. You can fight it."

Gambit groaned. He didn't feel like he could fight it. He felt like letting go. Everything hurt so much. Why prolong it?

"Think of Cunningham, Vasil, whoever he is," Steed persisted. "He'll die. That Perov chap will see to that. Purdey and I can't help him without you."

Right. Vasil. Gambit thought about the professor, helpless, doomed to an execution back in the Motherland, with only the hope that it would be quick to give him solace. It was Gambit's job to protect him. But duty wasn't strong enough to overcome the pain.

"I…can't," he whispered. He could feel his body slipping into a comforting void. It surrounded and soothed him, taking away the pain, the fear, the hopelessness. Sleep, his mind told him. Sleep, and it will all go away. And nothing will ever hurt you again.

He was falling, slipping away into oblivion, seconds away from death, but suddenly a blurry pink blob filled his vision. He mustered up the stamina to squint at it, and Purdey's features came into focus.

"Mike," she said, and her voice echoed in his ears like she was at the other end of a long tunnel. "Mike Gambit, don't you dare die on me. Do you understand? If you do, I'll never forgive you. Besides, we have unfinished business." She actually managed to smile through the tears pouring down her face. "We won't know if I'm right about your abilities if we never get any farther." She ran a finger along his jaw. "Stay. For me." She leaned down and kissed him, the kiss of life, just as she must have a million years ago, this morning, when she found him lying in his flat. But this time he wanted to kiss back. And to do that, he needed to fight…

It started slowly. He reminded himself that there was nothing really wrong with him, just a drug and a few words whispered in his ear. Purdey could do the same thing, had many times, whispered in his ear and brought his whole body to life in an instant. A kiss was enough to bring him back from the dead. He focussed on that.

It was working. He could feel it. He thought about Purdey more, about long car rides, and playful dances, and Saturday afternoons doing the crossword, and laughing. He thought about finding her on the bed, fading away from curare poisoning. He'd thought life was too short to not spend time with the person you cared for, and too long to live on when they were gone. He knew Purdey was that person. He didn't know how she felt about him, but if her reaction to his miraculous recovery was any indicator, she didn't want to lose him anymore than he did her. He couldn't leave her. She was already crying for the second time today. Enough of that...

Purdey was worried. Gambit's eyes were squeezed shut, and she couldn't tell if it was from pain or concentration as he fought the effects of the conditioning. But suddenly he inhaled sharply, whole body arching with the effort. And then his eyes snapped open, and he looked up. And smiled

At her.

"You do a hell of a pep talk, Purdey-girl," he quipped. She didn't know that was his usual term of endearment, but she smiled anyway and let the relief wash over her.

"As long as it does the job," she said cheerfully, helping him sit up. "Are you going to be all right?"

Gambit rubbed his chest, still sore from Purdey's earlier resuscitation attempt. "I think so. Feel a little weak. Probably could do with a drink. Help me up."

Steed and Purdey obliged, oblivious to the fact that Gambit wouldn't ask for assistance unless he was missing a limb or a good deal of blood, which meant he was still weaker than they knew. "You should rest," the girl asserted.

Gambit shook his head. "No time for that. We've got to get to Vasil before he's out of the country."

Purdey scowled. "But how? We don't even know where Perov's taking him."

"The farm," Steed broke in, looking from one to the other. "He said they needed to go to the farm."

"Farm?" Purdey wrinkled up her nose. "Why?"

Steed shrugged. Gambit smirked in spite of himself. Steed didn't shrug. Only a Steed who didn't know he was Steed would do that, and the casual gesture was vaguely amusing to him. But then the words sank in. "Did you say 'farm'?"

"Yes," Steed said carefully. "But there must be dozens—"

"Right. But I think I know which one he meant." Gambit limped over to the door, tried the knob, then patted his pockets. Empty, of course. Perov had seen to that. "I need a bit of wire," he told his colleagues. "Then I'll be able to get us out."

"Wire? You can pick locks?" Purdey looked impressed.

"We all can," Gambit replied, although he couldn't help but bask in Purdey's admiration, so rarely bestowed.

Steed was rummaging in the closet. "Will a hanger do?"

"Fine." Gambit took the hanger and untwisted it, set to work on the lock. "If I'm right, we'll need to drive there, but I'm not going to be up to it. If one of you don't mind...?"

"I'll do it," Steed volunteered.

"Thanks," Gambit was having success. The lock was fairly simple, and even his still- trembling hands didn't hinder him.

"But where are we going to get a car?" Purdey wanted to know.

Gambit smiled as the lock clicked. He turned and tossed the wire on a sidetable. "We're going to steal one," he said with a devilish glint in the eye. "And if you're very good, I'll teach you how to hotwire."


	9. Acting on Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
>  
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Purdey ended up acting as more of a lookout than a pupil, but Gambit somehow managed to unlock a black Cortina they found down a side-street and spark it to life. She didn't want to know where he'd picked up that little trick, but it didn't matter at this point. Gambit was already so pale from the effects of the conditioning she didn't want to push him any more than was absolutely necessary.

By the time Gambit had finished, he could barely drag himself into the back seat to collapse. He knew he could fight the drug now, but that didn't mean it wasn't hard, and didn't take a lot out of him. He leaned back in the seat and wondered how much good he'd do in stopping Perov in the shape he was in. He thought briefly about calling in, but Perov had a head start, and if Gambit was right, they were in a better position to stop him than McKay's men would be. It would take too long to mobilize. No, he'd have to go and hope for the best. Even so, he wished fervently that Purdey and Steed could at least remember their training. But Purdey had crawled in beside him, was currently resting a hand on his fevered forehead, and Steed was in the driver's seat. They were both looking to him, and he realised belatedly that he'd been appointed leader. It felt strange to have Steed looking to him for the answers. He suddenly had a new respect for the older man, to take on the leadership role in a treacherous game like this one, where there were no right answers, just right instincts. Gambit closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd be more than happy to turn the keys back over to Steed when this was all over.

"Are you all right?" Purdey's voice cut into his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see the same concern in her voice reflected in her face. "We should take you to a hospital."

"No." Gambit shook his head fervently. "No hospital. Steed, start driving out of London. I'll tell you which turns to make. Go left."

Steed nodded curtly and pulled out of their parking space. Gambit leaned back to wait for the next turn, ever aware of Purdey's worried hand, brushing his cheek now. He reached out and took it, squeezed it reassuringly. "I'm all right," he told her. "The drug'll flush out of my system, and I'll be good as new."

She smiled tightly. "You sound as though you've dealt with this before."

"I have," he confirmed. "Not much of a stranger to pain, I'm afraid. But I've felt worse than this and pulled through." He smiled weakly. "You haven't changed much, either. You still know how to fuss, at least."

"Well, if you make a habit of this sort of thing, then I'm not surprised. Coming home like this. It's a wonder I don't have any gray hair."

Gambit smirked a little, but inside he was reminded of how Purdey thought their relationship worked, and he was eventually going to have to face the uncomfortable task of bursting her bubble, telling her that she'd only ever bestowed the briefest of kisses upon him, nowhere near the cozy little romance she'd conjured up. Part of him wondered if this reflected the way the girl felt under the playful flirting that made up so much of their relationship, but he dismissed it immediately. She'd taken what she'd seen and combined it with her desire for security after this mad day, and come to the best conclusion she could. There was no point in upsetting her now. He didn't need her distracted if they really did catch up to Perov.

"Which way?" Steed wanted to know, and Gambit snapped back to reality, and got his bearings. Once he'd told the older man which way to go, Purdey asked where it was they were going.

"Steed has a stud farm. Horses," he elaborated, when Purdey arched an eyebrow. "Lots of grounds, so it'd be easy to land a helicopter without drawing too much attention. And he knows that Steed's not at home. Probably a bit of a sick joke, too. He knows where Steed's is, and even Steed doesn't. He'll be long gone before anyone's noticed anything amiss."

"Unless we stop him first," Steed pointed out, eyes burning with determination.

"Right," Gambit agreed, feeling a twinge of hope. Steed, the real Steed, was in there somewhere, just under the surface. That gave Gambit hope. Maybe things weren't as hopeless as he thought. "If you're up to it…"

Steed shifted gears and sped up. "An Englishman's home is his castle, whether he knows where it is or not," he declared, and Gambit grinned so broadly he thought his face would split. Steed. Good old Steed.

Gambit instructed Steed to park their ill-gotten mode of transport at the end of Steed's driveway. The gravel would prove too noisy if Perov was to be caught unawares, and even Purdey's protestations that he wouldn't make the walk could not deter him. Gambit knew he could make it. He had to make it.

They took the long way, forgoing the path to hug the foliage on the sides of the estate, just in case Perov happened to glance out the window. Thankfully, Purdey and Steed didn't argue with his insistence on stealth. Even if they didn't remember the rules of the game, they innately knew how to stay alive. Gambit only hoped they could keep things that way.

There was a car parked in front of Steed's, one Gambit didn't recognize, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he had been right. It was Perov's. It had to be. But it was the black Range Rover that held his interest.

"Wait here," he told Purdey and Steed, but the girl shook her head.

"You're not going anywhere alone, not in the shape you're in. What if you didn't come back? Then we'd be in a fine mess." The unturned chin was pure stubborn Purdey, and Gambit relented out of habit.

"Look, just to the Range Rover. There's something I need." He steeled himself, then broke into a run, with Purdey and Steed in tow. They came to a stop outside the Rover's passenger side door, conveniently facing away from the house. Gambit tried the door and thanked whatever forces had persuaded Steed to leave it unlocked. He fumbled for the glove box, clicked it open, and extracted the old Colt .45 Steed insisted he kept for sentimental reasons only. Gambit was feeling fairly warm and fuzzy about it himself as he checked the ammunition while Purdey watched in wide-eyed fascination. He felt much better now.

"Are you going to use that?" she murmured, looking a bit shaken at the idea.

"I hope not," Gambit muttered, moving for the front door. "But stay behind me just in case."

"In case what?" Purdey hissed at his back.

"In case Perov's lot go in for target practice." He paused and turned round, fixing them both with a serious expression. "Now listen. If we catch them by surprise, we just might be able to get Vasil without anyone getting hurt, but if things go pear-shaped, I want you to run for it, with or without me. Both of you," he clarified, looking to Steed.

"But I thought it was our job to protect Vasil!" Purdey protested. "We're not meant to run away."

"You don't even remember what your job is," Gambit retorted. "I think that excuses you. Look, you're not going to do anyone good as a couple of corpses. If you get away, you can at least let McKay know what's gone on."

"Who?" Purdey and Steed's question came in unison, and Gambit sighed and rubbed his temples.

"McKay. Our…boss, I suppose you could call him. Go to the Ministry." He gave them the address. "They'll know you there. Tell them what's happened. They'll know what to do."

"But not unless things go wrong?" Purdey pressed.

"They probably will…" Gambit didn't want her to underestimate the danger.

"But they might not." Purdey was looking more determined all the time. "And I'm not going anywhere unless I absolutely have to. Not without you."

Gambit sighed and looked down at his gun. "I don't want you hurt."

She laid a hand on his arm. "That goes both ways."

Gambit's mouth quirked up on one side. "You'd better wish us luck then," he told her, and opened the door.

No one was in the hall. Gambit kept his gun at ready as he crept inside, trusting Purdey and Steed to follow his lead. He approached the opening to the living/dining area with caution. Well-placed, as it turned out, since he spotted the Professor immediately, sandwiched between the two armed men while Sylvia and Perov conversed quietly near the doors that led out to the patio. The guards tried to jump up at the sight of the intruders, but hesitated when they saw Gambit's gun.

"Waiting for your ride, Perov?" Gambit said, and the Russian and Sylvia spun to face him. Gambit took some pleasure at the look of surprise on the agent's face.

"You!" he spat, whirling on Sylvia. "You said the conditioning would work!"

"I…it should have," Sylvia stammered, looking from Perov to Gambit uneasily. "But sometimes, if the subject is motivated, it can be fought."

Perov scowled, clearly unhappy with his younger charge. He turned to Gambit once more, looked him up and down, then regarded Purdey and Steed, who had stepped out to flank Mike on either side. "And yet, you do not look well, Mr. Gambit. Perhaps you can fight the effects. Perhaps it will not kill you. But it has made you weak. Let us see if it does so again. Let us see if you have developed an immunity to Tchaikovsky."

Gambit closed his eyes, tried to quell the burning pain creeping up his legs and into his stomach. He'd fought this once, he could do it again. Already he could tell that this time his body wasn't trying to shut down completely, but the pain was debilitating, becoming more so as Perov repeated the accursed word twice more, sending him to his knees. He heard Purdey cry out his name, felt her hand on his shoulder, but it hurt too much to open his eyes, and his hands were clenched too tightly to even think about handing her the gun. He had no idea where Steed was.

Perov smirked at the huddled figure, and the girl hovering beside him, making soothing noises and rubbing his back. Only Steed was left standing, eyes glinting oddly as they flicked from Perov to Gambit and Purdey, and back again. Still confused, he decided. It's almost too easy. He would take so much pleasure in toying with them properly, especially Steed. But the helicopter would be here soon and he didn't have time to doddle. He gestured vaguely at Purdey and Gambit. "Enough of this. The professor and I have things to attend to. Take care of them."

The two henchmen rose in unison, while Sylvia moved to the couch to take charge of the Professor and send him over to Vasil. The guards settled on Purdey first, with matching wicked smiles on their faces.

Gambit had never felt so weak, so totally drained of life. The drugs had dulled his instincts terribly, too, but at least some of the pain subsided enough for him to open his eyes. He realized instantly that Purdey was gone, standing her ground as Perov's two men approached her, with Steed obviously next on their list. Neither of them had their memories, let alone their training. He tried to stand, to brace himself for battle, but he only managed to straighten up halfway, and it was clear he would lose in a sparring match. Still, he couldn't stand by and let Purdey and Steed be slaughtered, even if all he could ensure was that he went first.

The men still got to Purdey first, one reaching out to grab her arm. To his surprise, she drove her knee into his stomach, then laced her fingers to bring a combined fist down hard on the man's neck as he doubled over, winded. The second drew his gun, but Purdey's long legs were already at work, quickly closing the distance between them before sending the weapon heavenward. Two more kicks and the man was down for the count. She reached up with impeccable timing, caught the gun, pulled back the safety, and leveled it at Perov in one fluid motion.

"Help him!" she demanded, eyes blazing. "Help Mike or I swear I'll shoot!"

Perov pulled Vasil in front of him as a human shield. He looked to Sylvia, but to his surprise she had somehow found herself pinned beneath Steed, sprawled on the couch while he sat quite cheerfully on top, watching the scene unfold with interest. "If I were you, I'd listen to her. She was incredibly handy with a lamp earlier." He beamed at his old adversary.

Perov snorted. "She's bluffing. You're in over your head, my dear. You may have a few tricks in store, lying just under the surface, but without your full memory, you're still at a disadvantage. If you don't want someone to get hurt, drop the gun."

Purdey was clearly torn between Mike and rescuing the whimpering Vasil. Gambit could see the conflict, the wavering gun. "Purdey," he said hoarsely. "Purdey, it's all right. I'll be fine once the drug's out of my system. Just…just let him go."

"But he's got Vasil!" Purdey objected. "He'll kill him!"

Gambit knew that, didn't want to resign the Professor to his fate anymore than she did. But with the way he was feeling, and Purdey and Steed on uncertain ground, the logical part of his brain told him to cut his losses. "Not right away," he told Purdey. "We can still get him back. But none of us are in any shape to do anything about it now."

Purdey smiled, a wonderfully mad smile that was pure Purdey, that only the woman he knew and loved could summon at a time like this. "Speak for yourself, Mike Gambit."

The shot was nearly impossible, the sort an expert only made when he was feeling very lucky that day. The sort Gambit had only made once or twice in his entire life. But Purdey was motivated, and annoyed, and as such she was almost serene when she squeezed the trigger, managing to hit Perov on the shoulder while missing Professor Vasil by a hair. The enemy agent jerked in surprise, dropping his gun and releasing Vasil as he instinctively moved to nurse his own wound. Vasil scurried away, leaving Purdey to bear down upon the Russian with a smooth, determined gait, and press the barrel into his temple.

"You're not going anywhere," she informed crisply.

Gambit, despite his agony, felt his jaw drop. "Purdey…" he began in disbelief, reminding himself that Purdey, although fully capable of what she had done, shouldn't have remembered how to do any of it. Was she back?

"Do you have something to restrain him?" she asked briskly. "Because I'll need both hands to dress that wound." She cast a concerned glance his way. "If you can manage it."

"Yeah. Just a minute." Gambit limped over to the cupboard where he knew Steed stored his handcuffs, found a pair each for Purdey and Steed, and tossed them over, before extracting two of his own to bind up the unconscious henchmen. "Keep an eye on them. I have to call in. Steed's got a broom closet down the hall and to the left. Nice and open. And it locks from the outside."

Steed nodded curtly. "I understand." He hefted the kicking Sylvia and followed Purdey and Perov into the corridor.

Gambit settled onto the couch, rubbed his temples to ease the throbbing headache. Steed was usually the one in charge of clean-up, but he clearly wasn't capable now, and Purdey…well, he wasn't certain how much of Purdey was instinct and how much was recall. Sighing, he dialed the number known only to himself and a handful of others. A woman's voice answered.

"Identification?"

Gambit sighed. "56723045. Password: Camenes." That had been his little inside-joke, after Purdey and himself had found themselves musing on the structure of logical arguments—not as though any argument with Purdey was logical, anyway. He'd chosen it for a laugh shortly afterward. But the way Purdey, who had just returned from locking up Perov and company, had looked at him blankly when he said the word told him she was still wiped clean, regardless of her remarkable feats a scant few minutes earlier. "I need McKay."

"One moment please." There was a short silence, followed by a click. Steed was hauling one of the henchmen off down the hall. Purdey took hold of the other and mouthed "First-aid kit?" at him, and he indicated for her to visit the kitchen.

"Gambit?" McKay's gruff voice filtered down the wire and jarred his mounting headache, not to mention cutting into his hand signals. "About time. We've been trying to contact the three of you all day. Perov's gone missing."

"I know," Gambit revealed, unable to keep the hint of smugness from his voice. "We found him. We've got him locked up now."

"What? How?" McKay was hard to surprise, but he certainly hadn't been expecting that.

"It's a long story," Gambit said tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "I'll need a proper debriefing to explain it all. But right now I need you to send a team over."

"Right, what do you need?" McKay was all business now. Perov was captured, and that meant things to do and operations to carry out, by the book.

Gambit pulled himself together and mustered his thoughts. "We'll need a security detail. Other than Perov, we've got two heavies and a girl. One of ours. Sylvia Burroughs."

He could hear McKay snap to attention. "Burroughs? She's a nurse, isn't she?"

"Right," Gambit confirmed. "She helped Kendrick give me the latest round of inoculations yesterday. Somewhere along the line, she slipped in a dose of Perov's death simulating drug. Purdey and Steed found me stone dead this morning."

"Busy, aren't we?" McKay said sarcastically, but the snippiness was likely more due to Perov's escape than any unconcern about Gambit.

"You don't know the half of it," he sighed.

McKay's voice turned sourer still as a thought dawned. "She was in attendance at several of Perov's interrogations, including today. She must have slipped the knockout drug into the coffee at Wringer #5. That's how he escaped. All the guards were out cold, just like you."

Gambit shuddered involuntarily at the name of the Ministry's dirty secret, and his mind flicked momentarily to the types of techniques frequently employed by the 'interrogative' branch of his business. "I think she must have been the last card," he hypothesized, recalling the reason for Perov's continued questioning. "The one Perov was holding out on. The Ace."

McKay did the math in his head. "That would make her just a child when she came in."

"Right. Least suspicious of all. Fewer years to make up a background for. She's been under deep cover for most of her life." Gambit massaged his temples. "Can you tell me if Project Forget-Me-Not's still running?" Purdey was back now, settled onto the couch so she could watch him intently. Her eyes were curious. Clearly, she didn't remember Steed going through this rigmarole dozens of times. Usually she'd keep him chuckling while they waited the boring bits out, but now the most she could offer was a smile. Gambit took what he could get and smiled back, although wanly.

McKay thought for a moment. "Yes, I believe so. They've been trying to incorporate persuasion and such in, to push the amnesiacs to recall certain things before they remember their loyalties."

"Burroughs must have been involved, because that's how I felt. Guided."

"She gave you the drug?" McKay was surprised again, for the second time in as many minutes. A record. "What about Purdey and Steed?"

"Physically, they're fine. But they don't remember a damned thing before 11 this morning. Send Kendrick over with some antidote. And he'll need to take a look at Perov. Purdey shot him in the shoulder."

He could hear a pen scratching on a pad. "Right. What about you?"

"Feel like hell. I think the death drug mucked about with the other one, because I've got my memory back. But I've had a pretty bad cocktail, so he ought to check me out, too."

McKay snorted. "Must be serious if you actually want Kendrick to take a look at you."

"It's been that kind of day," Gambit snapped, not in the mood. "We're at the stud farm. How soon can you get here?"

"Half an hour, tops."

"Thanks."

He rang off and regarded Purdey. She was perched nervously on the edge of the coffee table, fidgeting. "How are you holding up?"

Her smiled was pinched. "All right, I suppose. I mean, what I did just now…it's like someone else was doing it for me, and I was watching." She was trembling slightly, and he reached out to touch her hand.

"You were brilliant," he promised. "Scared the hell out of me, but you couldn't have done better, even with your memory back."

Purdey moved her hand so she could squeeze his. "I had the right motivation," she said softly, eyes shining, and Gambit felt a lump in his throat as he remembered that Purdey was still under the mistaken impression that they were lovers, not partners. Now was as good a time as any to clear up that misunderstanding, but when she scooted closer on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder, he started to wonder if he could do it, if he could thrust Purdey away when she was so willing, so starry-eyed, for him. But she didn't know him, not really, not the way the Purdey with a past did. It wasn't the same. He sighed. Why did life have to be so unfair?

A sudden whir of helicopter blades reminded him that he'd forgotten about Perov's ride. He broke away quickly, grabbing the gun off the coffee table where he'd left it. "Where's Steed?"

"Guarding the closet," Purdey informed, glancing toward the glass doors. "He's got Vasil with him. He took what you said about protecting him seriously. Should I get him?"

"No." Gambit glanced around, focused on a cabinet by the fireplace. "There's a cricket bat in there. Get it, just in case, and we'll round up the last of the lot."


	10. Remembering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Steed, Gambit, and Purdey. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
>  
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was only one man in the helicopter, as it turned out, one that clearly hadn't been paid enough to try and escape when Gambit appeared and leveled the gun at him through the glass. He trooped inside obediently and was added to the rest of the collection. Vasil was curled behind Steed's umbrella stand, and refused all proddings to move until McKay's men arrived and swept him away. Kendrick was with them, and immediately set up a makeshift surgery in one of Steed's guest rooms, attending to first Vasil with a few sedatives, then Perov, and then Gambit. It was while Steed was inside receiving the antidote to restore his memory that Gambit caught up with Purdey again. She was standing uncertainly in the corridor, suddenly helpless as Ministry men bustled back and forth, attending to the prisoners and helicopter, checking Perov's car, and generally keeping busy. She smiled uncertainly at him, but stepped in close, as though his presence would wipe away the confusion in her addled brain.

"They must have sent the whole Ministry over," she joked nervously. "At this rate, we won't have any time alone until we're ninety." Gambit winced visibly at that, and her expression immediately turned to concern. "Do you still feel ill?" Her fingers brushed his face, her lips so close to his as she stepped in that he had to turn away lest he lose all self control.

"Look, Purdey," Gambit said softly. "Dr. Kendrick's upstairs. He's got an antidote for the drug that's erased your memory. Steed's had his, and it takes about half an hour to take effect. You just go in there and Kendrick will make sure you get your memory back. It's that simple. It'll make you a little tired, too, so I'm…I'm going to make myself scarce, all right?"

Her eyes were confused. "Why? I was hoping you'd be here when I came out. I mean, you're about the only touchpoint I've had today. If I'm going to get my memory back, bit by bit, it'd be easier if there was someone here. Someone I trusted."

"I know," Gambit sighed, taking her hands in his. Here it came. The confession. "But considering what's gone on between us today, I get the feeling you'll want a little time to pull yourself together before facing me again."

Purdey smiled and shook her head. "What are you talking about? I can't believe anything happened that hasn't before." She saw Gambit's downcast eyes, and felt a twinge of doubt. "Mike?"

"I should have told you sooner," Gambit blurted out, and she jerked in surprise. "But there wasn't time. And I only remembered myself at Vasil's. Otherwise I wouldn't have done anything. I need you to understand that."

"All right," she replied, laughing nervously. "Your intentions were honourable, and you can't be blamed for what you can't remember. I understand. But I don't see the problem if we're-" She froze as Gambit's eyes bore into her, beseeching her, pushing her to come to the truth on her own. "We…we are lovers, aren't we?'

Gambit looked down, briefly, as though he needed to collect himself. When he looked up again the mouth was smiling, but his blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. "No, Purdey-girl, I'm afraid we're not."

"But those pictures!" Purdey protested, feeling as thought the floor had fallen out from under her for the second time that day.

"I never said we weren't close," Gambit murmured. "We're colleagues and good friends. The best in fact. But we've, we've never really gotten it together that way."

"Why?" she wanted to know. It didn't make sense. She knew how she felt. It couldn't be just a side-effect of the drug.

Good question, Gambit thought, but didn't say it. "It's complicated," he told the girl.

"Oh." His eyes were so sad, but he clearly wasn't letting on to the full extent of the pain bubbling away inside. "But…how can that be possible?" She put a hand on his chest, taking solace from the heart beating steadily away in his chest. "The way I feel, deep down, I know I lo—"

"No! No, don't say anything," Gambit pleaded, backing away from her like he'd been burned. "Just go get your memory back. Please. Before you do anything you'll regret."

"Then maybe I don't want to remember!" she sobbed, tears racing down her cheeks. "I was happy in the flat. Really happy. If everything's so complicated, maybe it's better. Maybe I'm really feeling the way I should. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise." She kept moving toward him even as he backed away. It was tempting, so tempting what she was offering. He wanted to accept so badly. She was still coming, relentless. "Don't you ever wish you could wipe the slate clean, start over? Just be who you are and do what you want? We could do that. You and me. No past. Just us."

Gambit felt his back hit the wall. "We can't!" he cried, trapped, nowhere to run, no way to resist.

"We can!" Purdey insisted, clutching his lapels. "It's simple. I won't take the antidote. I don't care. I'll make new memories."

"Purdey, no," Gambit interrupted, shaking his head, loosening her grip, pushing her away. "Purdey, I couldn't do that. Not to you."

"Why?" Her heart was breaking. Didn't he love her, just the way she did him?

Gambit's voice, no, his whole body, was shaking. He ran a hand over his face, bracing himself before looked at her again. "For one thing," he told her, in as calm a voice as he could, "your memory will come back on its own eventually, and mine's already back, so we're not starting from scratch. For another, our history, our past, our memories are part of what made us so good together." He tried to smile again, but she wasn't having it. "We have in-jokes, Purdey. Brilliant, wonderful in-jokes, and old arguments from last Tuesday, and discussions about old films. You'd want those memories back if you knew what they were."

"But we weren't together," Purdey broke in. "Not really. It could be better. We could make a new history, new memories."

"Maybe," Gambit allowed. "But even if you never did come out of it…Purdey, every day I was with you, I'd know it wasn't the real you, the you that had all the experiences that made you the girl I knew. And I'd be betraying that girl if I carried on with her when she didn't know all the reasons, all the consequences, of what she was doing. I couldn't do that with a clean conscience, because I'd never know if that was what you'd really have wanted. So I have to go. Now. And let you get a full deck again so you can decide what you want. Really decide." He shrugged sadly. "I'm sorry, but that's how it has to be."

"At least let me kiss you good-bye." She leaned in, but he stayed her with a hand on her shoulder.

"No, I think it'd be better for both of us if you didn't. And I'm not really going anywhere. You'll see me tomorrow, and the next day, and every other day until you're sick of me." He could see the hurt in her eyes at the gesture, but there wasn't anything else to say. "Believe me, it's better this way. Things'll be easier for both of us if I walk away now. You'll understand when you get your memory back. You have to trust me."

"I trust you," she assured. "I do. But I still don't see…what I feel deep down inside, it can't come only from today."

Gambit's heart leapt in spite of himself. The idea that Purdey…his Purdey…was harbouring strong enough feelings for him to overcome amnesia was a dream come true. But he wrestled those hopes down before they could settle in. It would only make it harder when Purdey regained her wits and fell back into easy, arms-length banter.

"I should go," he said softly, brushing her cheek in spite of himself, and turned to put actions to words. She caught his arm and held him back

"When will I see you again?" Her grip was impossibly strong. Or was it her eyes that kept him there?

"Later," he answered vaguely.

She shook her head. "That's not good enough. You said you weren't leaving forever. Tell me when."

"Purdey…"

"Promise you'll come and see me. At my flat. In two hours." She could see his hesitation, and pressed on. "Look, I don't know what kind of woman I am if I'm going to shun you for keeping a promise you made to me, even if I'm an amnesiac. I'll know why you're there, and that you have the best of intentions. I won't be cross. Just come. Promise me you'll come. If you're the man I think you are, you won't just leave me like this."

"Well…"

"Promise me." She reached out and ran her fingers along his jaw. "Please. You wouldn't break a promise, would you?"

"No," he managed, mesmerized by her voice, by her touch. "All right. I promise."

She beamed. "Two hours," she reminded as he pulled away.

"Two," he agreed, and then hurried on, before the waters could get any deeper.

 

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Gambit stood before Purdey's door, debating whether or not to knock. On the one hand, Purdey, memory fully restored, might prefer that he didn't keep his promise in exchange for a little more time to pull herself together. But on the other hand, he had made a promise. He didn't want to believe he could break a vow to Purdey, whether she was confused or not. She was still Purdey, and he wanted her to know he was here for her if she needed him. He couldn't walk away, not unless she wanted him to. That was how he'd do it. Knock, and gauge her reaction. If she hinted that she wanted him gone, he'd go. But at least she'd know he meant what he said.

He knocked.

She'd been expecting him, obviously, because she answered quickly. She'd changed into her lilac leotard, likely killing time with exercises until he arrived. She smiled fondly at the man in her doorway, his hands tucked in his pockets, shy and hopeful at the same time. She leaned against the frame, crossed her arms. "You came," she said simply.

Gambit shrugged. "I promised, didn't I?" A smile tugged at his lips. "Promised Janey, anyway. She's not still in residence, is she?"

"She's not running things, I'll tell you that much," Purdey replied, strangely circumspect. "And in case you don't believe me…bassoon."

Gambit actually laughed that time, shook his head. "I believe you. You all right?"

"Fine. I'm a bit tired, though. It's been a long day, and I had a whole evening planned. I thought I was going to be at the ballet taking in the evening performance right about now." She sighed. "You might as well come in while I'm still awake." She stood aside, smirking at the way Gambit hesitated slightly before taking her up on her offer, unwilling to intrude on her comfort zone. He really was a good man. Even Janey could see that. "I'm still surprised you came."

Gambit looked a bit shocked at that. "Well, Janey did save my life. I owed her something."

She chuckled. "Janey and Slim. Sounds like a couple from a bad fifties movie, come to think of it. But whoever I was, I thought it was high time I repaid the favour. It was so strange, especially in retrospect. To take down Perov on a barely remembered instinct. It's like watching a film in your head. And not a hint of Walter Huston to be found." She crossed the room. "Do you want a drink?"

"Desperately. Thanks." Gambit went over and settled himself on the couch. Purdey poured him a small whiskey without having to ask, and helped herself to a gin. She brought both over and handed Gambit his before settling down next to him. "Steed called," he told her, desperate for something to say. "Let me know you were both all right, had your memory back, although I think he was more worried about where I'd left his Colt."

Purdey laughed. "I heard him grumbling about it earlier. One of the clean-up crew bagged it thinking it was Perov's, and they spent a good quarter hour haggling over it. Then he started in about how Perov had dumped a perfectly good bowler and brolly in the trash somewhere." She giggled a bit more, before sobering up. "He was checking on you as much as anything, though. We've both been awfully worried about you today, and all those drugs can't have done you any good." She swallowed some more gin. "He's quite proud of the way you handled things, you know. He thinks you'll make a good leader one of these days."

Gambit snorted. "I'd have done even better with a full deck. But I'm not looking to take the boss job just yet. I just spent the last hour filling out forms for McKay. I don't know how Steed does it."

"No doubt he has some trick for avoiding the paperwork," Purdey said cheerfully. "He probably has some nice file clerk in records stamping things for him. Anyway, I'm glad you're not in the top job. You're already insufferable with that seniority of yours."

They both laughed at that, a safe familiar laugh at a safe familiar joke, appreciated all the more with the knowledge that neither would have been able to share in it a few hours earlier.

They sipped in silence for a moment after that, both preoccupied with the same thoughts, and painfully aware that the other was pondering the same subject. It was just a matter of who broached it first. Gambit didn't want to, but knowing Purdey, she'd hold out just to push him to be first, if only to see how he handled it. And he knew he'd go mad if he didn't say something soon. He set the glass down on the coffee table with a decisive thunk.

"I want you to know," he began, facing her with serious eyes, "what…happened…earlier was an effect of the drug. Not a bad one, mind," he admitted. "But I'm prepared to forget all about it. What Slim and Janey did…it doesn't have to change anything."

Purdey looked sad, suddenly set her drink down beside his. "I didn't like being Janey," she confessed. "She was suspicious, insecure, needy, and at times her diction left much to be desired. But she had one good point. She was honest with herself, and she didn't let anything distract her from how she felt." She put a hand on his, currently resting on his knee. "Mike Gambit, I saw you dead today. Even I can't ignore how that made me feel, let alone how Janey felt when we almost lost you to the conditioning."

Gambit swallowed hard. "Are you sure you and Janey haven't gotten your wires crossed?"

She grinned and shook her head. "Janey had one other good attribute. She had excellent taste in men." She reached up and touched his lips. "And she would have finished what she started, the way I should have long ago. I'm not going to wait for a real corpse." She leaned against him, soft and warm. "Do you have any plans this evening?"

"No, but I could still take you to the ballet," Gambit offered, even though that was the last place he wanted to go just now.

"I'd rather stay in," Purdey said suggestively, eyes wide and warm.

Gambit arched an eyebrow, trying to remain calm even as his heart leapt and his stomach flip-flopped. "Are you saying…?"

"If you can remember where you left off," she murmured in his ear, letting her hand slide between his jacket and shirt.

Gambit grinned, and leaned forward to brush her lips with his. "The chances of me forgetting that," he whispered, "are very, very small."

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may want to go back and rewatch the episode "House of Cards," as most of the plot concerns the events of that episode. There are also some pretty obvious references to "The Forget-Me-Not" and "The Wringer," as well.


End file.
